


'...and you are going to save my life': A Bering and Wells Drabble Compendium

by spheeris1



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Angst, Death, F/F, Gen, Love, Other, Sexual Content, Spoilers, and maybe an AU or two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 83
Words: 55,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is will be the place, archive-wise, for all my drabbles & one-shots concerning the Bering & Wells pairing from Warehouse 13. From time to time, other characters will make appearances, but the main focus for 99% of the time will be on the relationship between Myka Bering & H.G. Wells.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one, two, three

**Author's Note:**

> Check the tags for warnings & know that these drabbles/one-shots are all 'stand-alone' fiction; most of them do not interconnect, nor will many of these pieces have continuations (though some do).
> 
> Enjoy.

/

First: she blinks and it’s like the room is spinning and lights hit the ceiling like stars in the sky and it is dark but there is still a pulse of color, waving and rolling in from the edges, until the whole scope of her vision is filled up with heat that can be seen; up the spine and down the back of the knees, pushing down her stomach and swelling up into her throat like a fever…

…and she blinks and she exhales and she shakes all the way from her teeth down to her toes and she turns sheets into temporary tethers – gripping onto reality anyway that she can – and she blinks and she groans and she feels so damn much that she starts crying…

And she blinks and Helena is stretched out over her body and Myka remembers everything.

/

Second: she blinks and the world is moving on without her this time around and she isn’t even sure why she tries anymore; why does she try to save the world when the world likes to gasp for air like a fish trapped on the shore? Why does she catalogue all day long, names to objects, when wonder is meant to be shared? Why didn’t she stay with the Secret Service? Why didn’t she stay in Colorado Springs, marry some guy from around the way and have his children?

…and she blinks and she sighs and she lays down on her empty bed, book in hand like always, ready to read to rid herself of this reality – someone else’s dreams for romance and purpose – and there’s a time machine somewhere in this novel and she thinks she’d like to meet the person who could create such things…

And she blinks and H.G. Wells is stamped out in gold lettering and Myka has forgotten everything.

/

Third: she blinks and the door-bell rings and thank god her father isn’t here to complain about more tourists tracking dirt into ‘his’ store, even though it is her store now – deed signed over with a grimace and a roll of the eyes; no sons in this establishment and only one daughter to give a damn, so she dusts the covers and answers the dumb questions and recommends to ears that want to hear…

…and she blinks and she looks up and a woman meanders around the aisles, touching but never choosing, and she should be closing up soon – the dying daylight casting lovely shadows over the world – but the woman smiles about something, dark eyes flashing with humor, and the clock ticks away the minutes and there are not enough hours in the universe to appreciate such a sight…

And she blinks and the woman smiles over at her now and Myka wonders if this is the beginning of everything that will ever matter.

/  
-end-


	2. 'just ask me'

~ ~

You weren’t insane at all. 

But, if held up to another person… if held up to someone born in the here and now, someone who didn’t have to fight to get ahead, someone who managed to save what they love from death – well, you appear quite mad by comparison.

It’s all underneath your skin, running with the blood in your veins. It’s all resting beneath your muscles, sinew built of chaos and fury and sadness. It’s in your voice when you think no one is listening and it’s in your eyes when you think no one is looking back.

/ /

Ask me how I’d miss those signs and the answer is an easy one.

I didn’t want to see them. Instead, I saw beyond them.

I saw who you used to be – gallant and charming as a means to an end, but you saved the world with your heart of gold; I saw who you were meant to be – broken and tender like a child, but you will save the world with your very soul…

Ask me how I messed up, let you in before you were ready to return and let you be when you needed someone to wake you up again. Ask me how I let you down, pedestal of vowels and nouns and memories… Ask me and I’ll try not to lie this time.

/ /

The one person who knows me best… Is that really you? Do you really know me? Or have you just learned to look at yourself better now? Are we really the same? Or are you my future, a place where time takes its toll and loss piles up like snow?

If I stopped this from happening, kept your spirit locked away in some sliver of metal as your body roams high-school hallways… well, you wouldn’t know me at all…

Would you?

/ /

Ask me.

I won’t lie this time.

Put that gun down, stop yourself from faltering, and throw me a line… I won’t let go this time. 

/ /

I’m not insane.

I just love you more than anyone. And I’ll do what’s right, even if it means I have to lose you… I’ll do what I have to, even if means I must let you go. 

I’m not insane.

I just love you more than anyone and what we didn’t understand in speaking we made up for in knowing and in a perfect world you would smile and take my hand and you’d forgive yourself and kiss my silent lips and whatever we never said would become fact with a single touch from you to me.

Just ask me.

I’ll say yes.

Just ask me, Helena… 

/ /

I won’t let go this time.

/ /

-end-


	3. 'delays'

~ ~

It’s just a delay of the inevitable, my dear.

I was meant to die a million years ago, before what was once golden could turn to rust. And then I’d be words on a page and nothing more; I’d be your happy memory from days gone by and not a pretty little curse on your conscience.

But out of my cage I come and my roar is a deceptively quiet one.

/ /

Outside of Egypt, on a plane, you hold my hand without thinking and you don’t let go after I notice. And I should turn it over, return this palm to sender. Because I think you want to love me, I think it is written down on your heart line – like a wish whispered over birthday candles.

What makes this worse is that, in some other existence, loving you would be everything to me, too.

Other worlds, other places, other times… Oh, Myka… don’t you know that none of this is real?

/ /

The hand you hold is already dead and gone.

/ /

-end-


	4. 'she'll kiss you'

~ ~

She kisses you and it is meant as a distraction. Pure and simple, just a way to keep you on your back-foot, but it works all too well for half a second.

For half a second, she tastes like bourbon and her skin smells like soft leather and these visceral things dance upon your gut like tap-dancing butterflies.

You push her away roughly and she glares at you and you remember to pull your gun…

…But your tongue slides over your lips anyway.

/

She kisses you and it’s the first night of forever. Or that’s what you are feeling, beating there beneath your ribcage like timpani drums. Forever would be nice in her arms, wouldn’t it? 

Forever would be nice if it lived like this: her deft fingers weaving and working over your body, playing you like a fiddle – strings plucked and so you sing. Forever would be nice like this, wouldn’t it?

You pull her into you and she drowns in your desire and your love cuts through the air like an arrow…

…And, still, tomorrow comes too soon.

/

She kisses you and it is all over now.

Oh, it could have been the world swallowed up by ice. And oh, it could have been her eyes closed off in some dark car. It could have been a coin and it could have been a hologram. 

Oh, it doesn’t matter, does it?

It’s all over now and you are shoved into some sort of safety – against your will, against your nature – and she kisses you without ever touching you; lips firm and real, pressed against your soul, stealing your damn breath away…

…She kisses you and then she is just gone.

/

She’ll kiss you. And the world will spin and the world will bend and the world will take leave of its senses and the world will burn and break into a million pieces.

She’ll kiss you, Myka Bering, and you will continue to fall.

/

-end-


	5. 'but never by accident'

~ ~

Always incidental but never by accident, that’s how you touch me… whenever you touch me… which is never enough for my liking but I keep my thoughts to myself for now.

But ‘for now’ is such a horrible notion, isn’t it? It implies that the edge is here and feet are teetering close – and yet the plunge has not yet been taken.

‘For now’ is what wishes build regrets upon.

/

Always incidental but never by accident, that’s how you find me… whenever you look for me… which is always surreptitiously with eyes around corners and with smiles tilted towards the floor.

If I were as brave as I used to be, I’d tip your face back and kiss you; I’d curry your favor with renewed words, fresh ink from my lips, and you’d tumble into my waiting arms.

But I was buried all broken and I was reborn as such a beautiful coward…

…Oh, Myka, don’t you know that real fortitude is so hard to come by these days?

/

Always incidental but never by accident, that’s how you love me… whenever you choose to love me… which is always and forever, which is always too damn late…

And you push this curtain back and even with the demise of the world at my fingertips, I still ache to be near you; I ache and so I cave and I take what I can get in your warm flesh close to mine. And you devil you, returning this gesture for endless seconds, without knowing how things will just crumble like the sand underneath our boots.

You devil you, Myka Bering…

/

…into your canyons and your caverns I peer and so fear the falling…

/

-end-


	6. 'incomplete'

~ ~

Her hand stretches out, slowly moving over wrinkled bed-sheets, and where there should be warmth…

/

Helena has strong arms.

After a hundred years in bronze, suspended in time like a fly caught in a spider’s web, one would think that the muscles would shake and tremble for more than a few days. It should take weeks to recover; maybe even months.

But if a tesla to the throat or a boot to the face wasn’t enough to prove these theories wrong, then it would be the fact that Myka is dangling in the air – tightrope walk with no rope in sight – with Helena’s arm snug around her waist.

Sure, there’s reinforced wire helping out, too. And Myka is all about some old-school technology… that just happens to be owned by the author of some of her favorite stories… who just happens to be a woman as well…

But right now it is the sensation of something very familiar: the tensing of skeletal muscles, bicep hard against her side and forearm as a gentle vice; the finishing touch of a flat palm to her to the inside of her hip-bone, fingers briefly latching onto the loops of her pants – but just as an afterthought…

Helena has very strong arms indeed.

/

… there is emptiness…

/

Seconds feel like minutes as Myka waits for Helena to get closer.

But the woman descends at a leisurely pace, elbows barely bending, and all Myka can do is watch and wait and want. Still, watching can be nice; watching can be heavenly when it is Helena that Myka is watching.

The lamplight is soft and it makes Helena’s pale skin glow like the center of a lit match. And Myka is transfixed by shoulders extending and pushing outward, by shallow breaths that cause ripples beneath the surface; she is transfixed by this body that lowers itself so gracefully and so wickedly.

And oh, when Helena finally comes down, Myka curls around the woman like smoke; into the lungs, hanging onto the clothes, lingering in the strands of Helena’s dark hair.

Myka has very strong arms, too.

And she intends to never let go of these lips that kiss her until the sun devours the sky.

/

…and that emptiness slams into her like a cannonball, causing air to catch painfully in her throat. And without her consent, Myka’s eyes open to another dawn that feels terribly incomplete.

/

-end-


	7. 'the badge'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU

~ ~

She’s been awake for 19 hours solid.

Not a single second of shut-eye because there are no such things as cat-naps on this job. And she might as well be a caffeine addict with the way she is main-lining coffee into her system, styrofoam cups collecting on the floor of this unmarked car.

She shoves her back further into the seat, sighing as more familiar faces walk up and down the block – hustlers and part-time pushers, ladies leaning against the corners and looking at stopped cars with a mixture of cold pity and dollar-signs in their gaze…

…But none of these people are who Myka is looking for tonight.

It’s one thing to have sweaty junkies clogging up the alleyways, but it’s another thing to have kids popping up dead on the streets. It’s one thing to have dope trading hands on a Friday night, but it’s another thing to have a needle sticking out of a fourteen year-old boy’s arm.

It is because times are hard, that’s what the press likes to say on the seven o’clock news. Times are hard and the city is a mess and the mayor is full of shit… That’s what everybody says. And you can’t trust the cops either, that’s what the city says. The city is full of shady stares and crossed arms when the blue-lights roll by; lips sealed tight when dirty deeds go down.

And you can’t get any answers by being sweet, that’s what Myka knows.

She’s busted heads just to make a point. She’s pulled her gun before asking questions and she’s greased a palm or two to get what she wants. Sometimes you’ve got to play the game just the way it is laid out for you, you know?

Sometimes you’ve got to be a little bad in order to do a little good, that’s what Myka knows.

/

It is two in the morning when Myka finally catches a break.

Gliding to a stop at the juncture of 18th and Merrimon, all smooth and white in the streetlight, a car that wouldn’t make it out of alive normally on this side of town just idles calmly – like it owns the whole damn world.

And, in a way, the people inside of that car do own this part of the world.

They’ve got their own authority, lines drawn in the sand that the police aren’t meant to cross. And some cops keep their distance, ready to let this part of the city rot. And other cops are on the take, letting certain people slide through the cracks for pretty substantial kick-backs.

Myka’s fingers instinctually flex upon the steering wheel as a hot thread of anger runs through her body.

Just like the pimps and the gang-leaders she pursues, Myka has her own scores to settle – and nothing short of death will stop her when the time comes.  
But that time isn’t now.

Now, it is this sudden influx of Columbian cartels and the havoc they are creating. And Myka doesn’t give a shit if you want to shoot up, hiding away in your garage or in the backroom of some club, but when black rocks start showing up in the holding cells on a regular basis…

Well, that’s how a cop knows that the stakes are about to get much higher.

Myka radios to the other cars in the area, letting them know which side-streets to block off and from what direction to start their approach. She double-checks that her Beretta has a full clip before exiting the car and pushing the door shut with her hip. The girls know what’s up and they retreat into the shadows, leaving behind promising marks and sidewalks that punish a woman in high-heels. The married men who slowed down seem to disappear, too; running home with lies on their tongues. And the drunks who loiter just fall back down onto their garbage thrones, prepared to sleep their way through a fire-fight.

Myka hopes for quick and painless – at least, that’s what she hopes for herself.

But, really, that’s just wishful thinking on her part because Myka’s learned a lot over the years…

…and the first lesson is that, out here in the real world, nothing is ever as easy as you’d like it to be.

/

It would be nice to be a hero, right?

That’s kind of why she became a cop in the first place. Well, for that reason and to make her father proud. The man was always a bastard, god rest his miserable soul, but Myka didn’t choose this job to piss him off. She wanted to do something important; she wanted to protect and serve.

Her father never understood and, after that last heart-attack, he never had the chance to change his mind either.

Funny to have that particular thought running through her head right now; right now as she holds her breath and waits for those car doors to open, as she waits for the men in the suits to exchange cash for heroin and for months of surveillance to finally pay off.

Of course, the thing about being a hero is that that doesn’t mean you’ll live to see your own star rise.

And then it is happening and Myka decides that being a fucking hero is overrated anyway.

/

“New York City Police! Drop the case now, drop the case and get on the ground! Do it now!”

Two of the guys do as told, slow and steady like they know this part of the play already, and Myka orders a couple of officers over to press knees into backs and to drag their cuffed asses to one of the patrol cars. She nears the car with caution steps, eyes darting to the men being jerked up and pulled away, and it isn’t until she is inches away from the open driver’s side door that she realizes there is someone else in the car.

A nice white blast of heat is coming at her and she spins away as quickly as she can, but it’s not nearly quick enough. Even through the haze of agony that is tearing through her shoulder, Myka can hear the passenger side door open and the sound of feet scrambling. She can hear voices yelling ‘we’ve got a runner!’ and Myka grits her teeth – willing away discomfort with a rush of adrenaline – and then she is in pursuit.

“Jesus, Bering, sit down!” Another officer, Steve Jinks, shouts after her but she does not listen.

Single-minded. Stubborn. Goddamn pig-headedness. Call it what you like, but Myka Bering has got it all – and then some.

She forces her arm to work, to hold the walkie-talkie to her lips and direct pursuit towards the only place this road leads to – Myers Park – and then she is shuffling as quietly as she can along the brick wall; she is ignoring the stabs of pain, the strange hot and cold feeling of blood running down her arm, the sensation of clammy sweat forming on her forehead.

And the lights are still up in Myers Park, revealing a solitary figure running along damp summer-night grass. And Myka could wait for the rest of the NYPD to show up. She could sit down and tell them which way the man went, hope that he’d be caught and try her best to rest easy all the rest of her nights. But there’s dead kids to deal with and crying parents to call; there’s a fucking war going on and Myka didn’t become a cop just to stand by and let the chips fall where they may.

/

 _And this asshole did just shoot me_ , Myka thinks with finality as she raises her gun and takes aim.

/

The ER is jammed-packed and Myka would rather be anywhere else. But there are some injuries that cannot be taken care with a stiff drink after-all. So, she sits here with the screaming babies and the winos and the accident-prone, arm rendered immobile thanks to Officer Jinks who made a make-shift sling out of an old uniform button-down.

There will be questions. There will be issues with protocol not being followed and there will be suspicious glances. There will be a lot of talk about ‘right’ and ‘wrong’, all coming from the politicians and from the badges that rest crookedly on the chest. There will be warnings and Myka will say a whole lot of ‘yes sirs’ and everyone will pretend for a little while longer that this whole system is working.

And then, one day, Myka Bering will blow them all out of the fucking water.

But first things first: a nurse leads her to one of the rooms, away from the noise, and Myka takes a moment to actually allow her body to relax. And the coffee is long gone now, along with the rush of adrenaline, and so the sharp sting of the bullet wound makes itself fully known; it radiates all the way down to her fingertips and rides back up again in continual waves of misery.

“Sounds like you’ve had a busy evening… uh… Detective Bering?”

The inquiry comes along with a really pretty face and an accent – two things that always capture Myka’s interest. And it’ll be a cold day in hell before Myka Bering is incapable of charming her way into an attractive woman’s good graces.

Myka dips her gaze to look at the woman’s name-tag upon a white doctor’s coat, smiling smoothly once she looks back up into lovely dark eyes.

“Like you wouldn’t believe, Dr. Wells… “

The woman returns the smile as she gingerly removes the sling from Myka’s arm, with one hand left resting very lightly upon the curve of Myka’s elbow after the fact.

“Well then, Detective Bering, let’s see if I can somehow make the rest of your night a much more pleasant experience.”

And Myka leans forward – just a tiny bit – with her head canted to the side so that her lips are dangerously close to the doctor’s cheek.

“I have no doubt that you can make the rest of my night fantastic, Dr. Wells.”

The woman raises one eyebrow at this comment, the smile on her face simmering down into something a lot like a smirk, and Myka decides that getting shot might be the best thing that’s happened to her in a long while.

/

-end-


	8. 'here you are'

~ ~

If I were the one to turn back time, to take these hours and toss them aside like marbles, would your body still roll into mine in the middle of the night?

/

It is getting so that nothing shocks Myka much anymore.

Eyes no longer wide, muscles no longer tense – she rolls with those invisible punches like a damn pro. And it is getting so that nothing makes Myka’s heart pound much anymore; a pulse that never jumps, a brow that never breaks out in a sweat – she breathes easy, even when the world is burning all around her.

Nothing surprises Myka anymore.

Lovers gained, lovers lost – she plays these desires close to the vest from now on; she won’t be caught off guard by Cupid’s reckless aim again.

And yet, a window opens with the falling of stars and someone else flutters into this bedroom; someone who looks a lot like Myka and who sounds a lot like Myka, someone who feels everything that Myka ‘used’ to feel…

…and this woman shutters her eyes to the dawn, grasping onto every second as soft fingertips map out a million paths along the skin. Here are your roads, Myka breathes, here are your rivers and here are your twisted trails… all along my body, all along my soul… Here you are on me, just like you’ve always been…

/

Or would you just crack against me, stone to stone, and then slip away again?

/

-end-


	9. 'and a green gown she shall wear'

~ ~

_The sky is cut into a million glittering pieces, stitched together by the branches up above, and every time the sun falls down onto our faces…_

_…It is the fragments of our love that litters the ground._

/

Time moves on and Myka must move with it.

Steady as she goes, from one adventure to another; always grateful to be alive, always conscious of this wonderful world she has been given to live within. And Artie gets older by the day, grumpier than ever before – he talks to himself more often than not, muttering this and that about artifacts captured long ago. And Claudia has become the caretaker, shouldering responsibility with a shaky smile – her fingers still tap, tap, tap when the Regents speak in hushed tones. And Pete is just a phone-call away, pulled from the hum of a tesla and straight into the arms of a woman who would keep him safe from harm – he beams over that piece of pie from that diner, all warmth about a little child to come and testing out the sound of ‘Aunt Myka’ on his tongue.

She likes the sound of that, too.

Steve is her partner now and they tend to talk more seriously about things. After years of running around after Pete, picking up messes like a long-suffering mother, this is a calmer way to protect the world from trouble. They talk about cases and they talk about cities and they talk about everything.

Well, except the personal things.

Steve is kind of private and, really, Myka is, too; they leave certain things alone – like dreams about death, like loved ones gone – and that’s the way they want it to be.

Time moves on and Myka moves with it, feet doing their best to keep up with this relentless pace. And when she cannot manage it – an artifact too powerful, a pain too sharp, a chance too close – and the hours weigh down on her shoulders, Myka steals away from everyone for a little while.

And there, in a memory as delicate as glass, she remembers.

/

_The sky is cut into a million glittering pieces, stitched together by the branches up above, and every time the sun falls down onto our faces…_

Myka’s eyes roll back and her eyelids close and the bones of her body surge upward, curved at the middle and left taut – oh, how lovely she has been strung up and then laid out like a melody… The breeze flutters underneath her skin and the tips of green grass leave kisses there; hundreds of sweet caresses to match the one that moves along her exposed thigh, higher and higher to where fingers already stroke and linger.

One hand digging into the earth, dirt under the nails, and one hand threading through dark tresses – to encourage, to keep, to own… And here on this patch of paradise, Helena gives in to Myka’s silent possession.

Helena gives in and Myka ripples outward, one arm extended and one palm splayed as her hips roll without ceasing; Helena gives in and Myka trembles with this indescribable feeling – lust and tenderness and contentment lodged in her throat… until a new language rushes forth from her lips…

And Myka opens her eyes and the sky is falling.

_…It is the fragments of our love that litters the ground._

/

Time moves on.

But sometimes, Myka isn’t sure that she will ever follow.

/

-end-


	10. 'forward momentum'

~ ~

His feet are sort of frozen, as if industrial-strength fly-paper is affixed to the bottom of his sneakers, and his legs just cannot move. And that sensation of… well, of stuck-ness… starts to spread up the back of his calves and then across his thighs, rendering working muscles into mush.

And he wishes that Myka were here because Myka always knows what to do.

Instead, there is another hand that slowly slips into his and this hand holds on for dear life and it’s not Myka’s hand…

…but this grip will do in a pinch and this is a pinch indeed, so Pete uses what is left of his mobility to hold on just as tightly.

And, in this moment, Pete curses his own rampant curiosity; just like a kid in a toy store, he just has to touch everything that catches his eye and that is precisely how messes are made. He’s not even sure which ‘thing’ he touched that has caused this reaction but now his arms are beginning to stiffen and the hand that he is struggling to hold without shattering seems a millions miles away…

“Think of something else, Agent Lattimer. Think of something real, something that makes you extraordinarily happy…”

He sort of laughs but the sound that comes out of him is more like a broken cough – hard and breathless.

“Not being in this situation at all. That’s a thought that makes me feel pretty damn happy.”

His voice is strained as he speaks and that hand within his own shifts, fingers slowly intertwining with his – forcing them apart with concentrated effort – and Pete finally opens his eyes.

“Think of something wonderful, Agent Lattimer… Think of something that is worth forward momentum and choose to run to it now…”

And he doesn’t truly see H. G. Wells standing there, bent into a strange angle as she tethers him to a reality separate from whatever artifact he has come into contact with. One image settles into his mind, a funny little moment followed up with a smile and a kiss… and this isn’t _his_ thought at all…

But then the effects of the artifact are temporarily weakened and Pete blinks as one of his arms drops down to rest at his side. And the eyes looking back at him are wide and a little confused and H.G.’s mouth opens as if to speak… and then she rethinks that option, going very quiet instead.

He watches as she makes a bee-line for the ‘creepy’ painting that Pete vaguely remembers placing his palm to while he made some horror-movie noises and then she is spraying it down with the neutralizer. And Pete’s whole body goes loose like a net being dropped to the ground; his lungs expand as he deeply inhales and his knees want to buckle – whether from standing still for so long or from relief, he is not entirely sure.

That’s when Myka busts in, with Steve in-tow, and the questions start and Pete plays it all off with his usual sense of bravado – never letting on that he was seriously starting to freak out. He doesn’t let on about anything else either, darting a glance or two at H.G.’s kind-of silent profile as he continues to talk and as everyone else continues to listen with familiar grins on their faces.

Pete doesn’t tell anyone that it was H.G.’s thought that saved him today.

/

The vibes are different now.

They edge towards good, with a nice dose of regret in there somewhere, and a strange little hint of longing. Pete wasn’t sure what that sense of want was about, just that it seemed to slide in and out of view every so often.

_…A long day, where everyone is tired and moving lazily towards Leena’s, and H.G. tilts her head back to look at the sky and then – out of nowhere – Myka nudges the woman’s shoulder and they smile at one another… Myka looks back to the road ahead and H.G. stays right with looking at Myka…_

And it’s like seeing something for the first time, even though you’ve seen a million times before – that’s how Pete feels right now.

Now, he knows what all that longing is about.

/

“Hey.”

It’s not his place. It’s not his thought. It’s not information that she gave to him willingly; it was shoved into his brain without anyone’s permission and he should just let it go…

H.G. doesn’t put the book down that she is reading, all on her own in the living room. The rest of house is asleep, so it is just Pete and H.G. and the silence after his greeting. He doesn’t sit down but he doesn’t leave either, opting to lean his hip against the back of the couch – that way he isn’t facing H.G., so maybe she won’t continue to ignore him, but he is still very present… so she can’t really ignore him, even if she tries to.

Another minute goes by and finally she sighs in a manner most annoyed.

“I am going to indulge in some rather antiquated English behavior, Agent Lattimer, and request that we do not speak of what happened today.”  
“Did something happen today? Well, besides the fact that you couldn’t wait to hold my hand… You didn’t have to resort to putting an artifact in my path to make that fantasy come true, H.G.”

He smiles at her look of boredom with his antics. When she doesn’t break that stare, though, he holds his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, fine, I get it. You don’t want to talk about it, so we won’t talk about it.”

She says ‘thank you’ softly and then tilts her head back down, gaze back on the book-pages. However, it isn’t long before she realizes that he has not left and Pete makes sure to deliver a tiny wave when she looks back up at him. Her shoulders sag in response and Pete turns his body to lean more fully over the back of the couch, facing her completely now.

“What do you want, Agent Lattimer?”  
“Well, for starters, I want you to stop with the whole ‘Agent Lattimer’ thing… Call me Pete.”

It’s a move. It’s a big move actually and Pete knows it and he can see the gears turning behind H.G.’s eyes. And she settles somewhere between lightly shocked and somewhat shy before she tries to cover the reaction up – but Pete saw it anyway.

It’s fine if she needs to maintain a poker-face, though.

Pete is nothing if not patient… Well, with people, at least… Not so much with food…

“And I know you don’t want to talk about it but I guess I was kind of wondering why what happened… you know, happened…”

H.G. closes the book and runs a hand through her hair, her eyes going to just about every other point in this room but Pete as she replies.

“I have no idea. Perhaps, due to our contact, some of the artifact’s power created a transfer between us…”  
“So, you saw what I was thinking then?”  
“…Yes I did.”  
“And I saw what you were thinking about.”  
“Apparently so.”

Pete knows what he intended to think of as his body grew more and more stone-like. Ever since that case with the rabbit’s foot, his thoughts have turned more and more steadily to the transitory nature of life. Or, to put it more bluntly, Pete is feeling a tiny bit like he is missing out on some stuff that he doesn’t actually want to miss out on.

Like fatherhood.

And so, when H.G. said to think of ‘something wonderful’ and to think of something worth running towards, his thoughts turned automatically to being a parent – to some fictional little boy or girl that he would play games with and that he would tuck in at night and lay down his life for; to be a part of this whole new person, a whole new person to love unconditionally…

That was Pete’s thought and H.G. got to see it.

“I…,” H.G.’s gaze flutters up and then rests on him with a sincerity that he could never doubt, “…I think that you will make a very good father one day, Pete.”

And he figures that most guys might like hearing that from someone, but it seems to mean a lot more to hear those words from this woman sitting in front of him; this woman whose past is still probably hurting like hell, like a wound that turns white with time but never fully heals – there’s a phantom child still holding onto H.G.’s hand and Pete hopes that he never has to go through anything like that.

“Thanks… and, uh, not just for that… but for everything you did for me today.”

She sort of smiles at him now and shrugs nonchalantly.

“All in a day’s work.”

He nods with a small grin and quietly pushes off of the back of the couch, stepping out of the room backwards. And he is so close to leaving, he is almost to the foyer… but at the last second, Pete turns around once more.

“And I think that you should tell Myka how you feel…” Pete begins, hovering between going and staying and H.G. isn’t looking at him at all now; she is just staring straight ahead, like she is seeing something so far away from here.

“…Because she would want to know… and I think the two of you have already waited long enough.” Pete finishes and, when H.G. does not readily answer him, that’s when his feet finally move away.

And as he ascends the stairway to his bedroom, he swears that he can hear H.G. say something – something faint, something quiet, something timid and so completely unlike the woman he once thought he knew… But it is so completely like the woman he wants to know after-all.

“I know we have, Pete… I know…”

/

-end-


	11. 'what will happen next'

~ ~

Her fingers have a mind all their own, the way they hold steadily and the way they grip in fear; her fingers have a purpose beyond the obvious, the way they weave patterns and the way they seek asylum in Helena’s depths.

But where her mouth cannot open and where her heart cannot take another chance, her fingers will spell out every single terror and every single shred of longing upon this body returned to her bed.

/

Myka watches Helena sleep, for just a moment, and in the slope of the other woman’s lips —

_…oh, there is my home… oh, there is my lost kingdom…_

—are the questions that neither of them has asked yet.

How long do we have this time? When will we have to wake up alone again? Why didn’t this happen a million years ago, back when love was still so simple? Where can we be together forever and never look back?

_What will happen next?_

But next comes in seconds, the turning of Helena’s body into Myka’s warmth and the brush of smooth skin against smooth skin, and tomorrow dissolves within this sensation of unspoken love.

/

‘You are back’ is written on the inside of Helena’s wrist.  
‘And I am yours’ is tattooed upon Myka’s neck.

/

_What will happen next…_

…is anyone’s guess.

/

-end-


	12. 'bee in her bonnet'

~ ~

She’s just finished placing the last button through the last hole and she takes a moment – really, just a second or two – to look at the bed in front of her. She bypasses the blanket that hangs precariously on the edge of the mattress and she ignores the rough and tumble tangle of sheets that look incredibly off-white in this early morning light.

Instead, her eyes take snapshots and she’ll put these pictures away soon enough… but, right now, she’d like to remember sensations that are rapidly cooling instead of dancing around to the same damn tune she’s been shuffling her feet to for days upon days.

The soft underbelly of a single foot revealed in the open air.

The gentle curve of a knee almost hidden from view but not quite.

A river of dark hair that runs this way and that and obscures a rather pretty face from daylight.

Myka creates a photograph within her mind and then she walks out of this hotel room as simply as she walked into it the night before.

/

She’s dealt with empty beds before. She’d dealt with loss and with lingering feelings; she’s had to face jealousy and she’s had to let go of old loves that no longer hold her hand the way that they used to.

She’s shut her heart off before and she’s tried to kill off all of her emotions, too. She’s been the tight-ass, the no-fun one, the brain in a room full of fucking comedians, the head behind the book while the rest of the world turns the television on…

…Myka finds nothing new with being the odd girl out.

But it’s another hour without a word and it’s another minute without an answer and Myka doesn’t like being the woman left behind without explanation.

It’s a new role and it clings too tightly to all the wrong places. And the longer she wears this outfit – the waiting, the wanting, the looking and never seeing – the more she wants to rip it off for good.

/

There are no lies.

There are no promises.

There is just an urge, just a need, and Myka isn’t here to fall in love with anyone because she is already in love with someone else. She’s already in love, in the worst damn way, and this person is just an attractive distraction.

There are no games.

There are no plans for tomorrow.

There is just a touch, just a kiss, and Myka isn’t here to remember the last time she was in this position – head thrown back and nails into flesh – but in the middle of the new is the lure of the past and suddenly there is Helena… but thoughts of Helena are never actually sudden. And Myka is really tough but she’s not so tough tonight and it is an unfamiliar head buried between her legs… and yet, in her mind, it is another tongue doing the work.

/

_Walk through the door. Walk through the door now._

About a billion times a day, that’s what she thinks once the long day is done – pushing her shoes off, throwing her coat down, eating breakfast or lunch or dinner, showering away the sweat, falling into bed with a sigh…

_…Walk through the door. Walk through the door now…_

About a billion times a day, that’s the mantra that bounces around her body but never leaves her lips; that’s the wish that annoys her the most.

_Why aren’t you walking through the fucking door, Helena?_

/

And she’ll have to apologize to Pete one day.

Because everyone gets lonely sometimes, don’t they? Everyone wants to feel something good in this world that is always so close to ending, always so close to eating you alive… Everyone wants someone to take away the sting for a while, don’t they?

/

And Myka knows which bee has gotten stuck in her bonnet.

/

-end-


	13. 'let you in'

~ ~

Edges of you blur and moments with you are so fleeting; not yet a lover but so much more than a friend, you come to me – and I let you in.

I let you in.

/

_…Better the death you know than the loss you don’t…_

But Helena cannot sleep as well as she once did – a hundred years ago, slumbering with the scent of lamp-oil around her head – and she paces when no one is looking, in between midnight and the dawn.

_…To sleep perchance to dream…_

She sought peace with so much blood, she sought salvation with pulling apart the hours, and she sought comfort in the distance – here’s to the future, after all - and she woke up as alone as ever, a tiny part of a world long dead and a tender piece within a world that has spun itself into horrible wonders.

_…Oh, let me go, let me be…_

Her forehead against a cold, South Dakota window-pane, staring out at the untouched snow; sparkling under moonlight, this cosmic dust, and Helena would give anything to ruin such a silent beauty. But fingers slip across her palm and the ice remains unbroken once again and Myka is so damn lovely right now – sleep-pressed curls to her heated face…

_…It would be so easy to ruin you…_

/

I let you in.

And so we have made the first of our many mistakes.

/

-end-


	14. 'running'

~ ~

Choose a space and make it your own. Call me home and I’ll come running.

/

Never one to fall easily, she is used to the chase – _catch me if you can_ – and no one was ever good enough to get close enough… and you think you’re the one?

Your fingers are hot against my skin, a little angry and a little bitter at your own misgivings. But I can forget if you can forgive… can you do that? Can you do what you want to, in the end… can you do these things to me, too?

Never one to fall easily, she is used to the game – _players cannot complain about being played_ – and you think you’ve got the winning hand… don’t you?

Your smile is hot against my lips, a little bit of hero-worship and a little bit of eager joy at your good luck. But I can forgive if you can forget… can we do that? Can we do what we want to, in the end… can we do this to each other, too?

/

Call me home and I’ll come running. Choose a space and make it your own.

/

If she had it to do all over again…

But no, that makes no sense tonight because to wish away one is to lose another; to save one means to sacrifice another. No life is simple, though – this is what Helena knows.

Christina weeps in another lifetime. Myka cries out in this one. Enough pain and enough pleasure to satisfy a hundred years of nothing – this is what Helena knows.

And so she closes her eyes as Myka’s mouth marks the back of her neck, branded by a kiss that will bruise, and Myka demands something of her that no one has ever asked for – and Helena comes.

/

Helena comes running.

/

-end-


	15. 'always end'

~ ~

Watching you with my last breath as the sea steals me away, this is how you and I always end. Cradling your body to mine as blood slowly coats your unmoving lips, this is how you and I always end. Hours beat along to the sound of machines with my hand no longer able to hold onto yours, this is how you and I always end. The world is on fire as you smile at me from somewhere I cannot ever be…

…and this is how you and I always end.

/

“You were my husband once, you know…”

And Myka’s voice is quiet, a whisper made even more groggy as the after-effects of an artifact take their toll. And Helena’s face is impassive – so cold, so very cold – but her heart turns over like an engine at those words.

“…and I had your children, I gave you such beautiful children…”

The locket heats up against Helena’s skin and so it leaves a new mark among so many others. And bruises ache terribly before they fade; wounds turn into scars, yes, but they never disappear. And Helena still hurts and she takes Myka’s hand into her own, weaving their fingers together so tightly – a lovers knot made of flesh.

“…you were always mine… and this is how you and I always end…”

/

We are always ending a moment too soon, aren’t we, Myka?

/

-end-


	16. 'for i hate the trees'

~ ~

For just one minute, she knows everything.

/

The fate of the world is being torn apart by ancient dangers and its demise is hers to see, sitting brokenly on the cold floor of some jail-cell in Italy. And from the bars overhead, she can see the lick of flames against a black, starless sky; she can smell the smoke coming off of a million fires, she can hear the toppling of bricks and the crashing of metal and the shattering of glass.

And Myka has never felt so alone in her entire life.

And it sets in deeper now, this loneliness… and it slides up into her chest, making it hard to breathe… and it burns behind her eyes until there is no point in pretending anymore…

And so Myka cries.

There’s no one to hide these tears from now; there’s no mission left to complete today. There’s no good friend to stand close by, to place their warm hand on her shoulder and to promise that things will work out ‘in the end.’ There’s no family to run to now, not back in Colorado Springs and not in Univille, South Dakota either; there’s no soft bed waiting with a book barely read upon the night-table, there’s no familiar halls to fill up with endless wonder.

And there’s no chance to get it right this time, as the seconds slip further and further away… There is no Helena to try and save, to try and believe in, to try and reach out for before this world ends. There won’t be another chance for Myka to look over and find Helena already watching her… There won’t be another moment for them to foolishly let slip through their fingers…

And as this hour turns into another… and then another… Myka knows that there is nothing left worth fighting for.

/

For just one minute, she knows everything…

…and then, like a mirage, that other reality shimmers away again.

/

Myka sits up in her bed, clutching a blanket to her chest with one hand and slowly placing her other hand against Helena’s wrist. And the pulse beats steadily there – one, two, three – and so it was a horrible dream.

_Just a horrible, horrible dream._

/

-end-


	17. 'to really live'

~ ~

To be alive is one thing; to really live is another notion all-together.

And Helena is more than ready to give that second option a fair shake.

/

The world is turned around and re-shaped and dismantled and then built back up again. And Helena is actually rather good at disappearing, so she does as told… even if it all stings just a bit more than it would have one hundred years ago, even if there are people she does not want to leave behind…

But she goes and she waits and she dreams of waking up in the bowels of the Warehouse; she dreams of opening her eyes - long shut by pain and by bitterness and by rusted tears – and of seeing this new time as a blessing, not a personal curse. She dreams of having a life, one beyond adventure and beyond daring, one beyond hours and beyond the countless seconds she has chased.

She dreams of Myka Bering, of a future that does not burn up and blow away, of a kiss forever owed.

/

The world spins and twists and turns with reckless abandon and then it slows down again. And Helena isn’t supposed to be here, but she isn’t very good at doing as she is told… even if the trouble that she gains is more than she can handle, even if she is always close to dying right as she realizes that she actually likes breathing…

But she is here and she pushes a shocked Myka out of the way and she feels a wicked sort of agony blossom across her face; she is falling as the figures around her blur, as the ceiling races past her vision at the speed of light, as a panicked voice cradles her ears all the way to blackness.

And she dreams of the Warehouse, she dreams of time-machines and ink caught in the grooves of her fingertips; she dreams of the scent of ashes, heaviest at the moment of her most recent demise, and she dreams of the sound that a cool blade makes when it is peeling back murderous flesh… And she dreams of Christina, before the universe snatched her away; she dreams of her bronze coffin and of artifacts within her grasp and of a madness that will never fully leave her soul…

…and she dreams of Myka Bering, of a past with such heartbreaking potential, of chances forever lost.

/

To be alive is one thing; to really live is another notion all-together.

/

And Helena opens her eyes, blinking the blurriness away bit by bit, and Myka Bering’s face - colored with confusion and concern – swims into view. And Helena cannot stop herself from smiling, though the action causes her jaw to ache terribly.

Myka’s voice is soft, rolling over Helena with tender care, and the world is suddenly so very right again.

“Are you okay?”

Helena slowly reaches out, slowly finds purchase upon Myka’s hand, slowly wakes up from what feels like eons of just dreaming.

/

And Helena is more than ready to give that second notion a fair shake.

/

“I am now.”

/

-end-


	18. 'this is love'

~ ~

Myka counts the vertebra, ticking off the spaces with silent numbers on her tongue, and so reaching the back of Helena’s neck is like landing flat-footed on a trampoline – she is there for a wonderful second and then she bounces away again…

/

There’s something special in the way you hold me, you know?

Like you’ve never held anyone as close as you have kept me – except a child, except that child you lost, except that heated metal-memory against your chest. But there is something special in the way you hold me, with your heart no longer fearful that the world will tear us asunder…

…You make me feel so damn special, you know?

/

One breath… and then another, but gasps of air continue to catch on the corners of Helena’s mouth and Myka resists the desire to devour each exhalation that gets so deliciously ensnared. And she pulls back from this wanton edge, even though giving in would be more wondrous than a whole warehouse full of wonders…

/

And there’s something magical in the way you know me so well.

It’s like you picked apart my brain over a hundred years ago, twisting the gears until I was revealed; it is like you took my soul into your hands and turned it inside-out, just waiting until the day would arrive where you would find me again – find me in your home, find me in your arms, find me watching you… always watching you…

…You are so fucking magical, you know?

/

We’ve lost so many tomorrows. Or had them stolen from us, hot on the heels of thieves that can never truly be brought to justice…

…and so you cannot blame me for wanting to take my time, for pushing the hours as far back as I can, for making each moment with you last forever.

We’ve lost so much; I won’t lose what I have with you.

Not this time.

/

“Please…”

And so what has been building is now undone, ropes pulled taut unfurl, and Helena’s body rises up – arms outstretched and head thrown to one side – and this is sacrifice without dying, this is faith with no cross to bear.

This is love.

This is love and Myka won’t allow this feeling to disappear.

Not this time.

/

-end-


	19. 'if its not love, then its the bomb that will bring us together'

~ ~

Myka takes a second or two to catch her breath, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling – but not really seeing anything at all. And she tries to focus on mundane aspects of this reality: the sheet is sticking to her back, her face feels very warm, and those clothes will be wrinkled if they stay on the floor much longer.

A part of her would love to ignore the reason why those clothes are on the floor; a part of her is desperate to ignore the reason why her face is flushed at all – in the middle of the afternoon, bedroom door shut and windows closed tightly - and a part of her is trying so hard to ignore the reason why her back is slick with cooling sweat, thus making the sheet beneath her cling when normally it would remain separate from Myka’s flesh.

Even on a good day, though, H.G. Wells is very difficult to ignore.

/

Here’s the bad news: they don’t talk about it.

Myka wants to, she really does… but then again, she doesn’t want to talk about it and so she vacillates between these two desires all day long. And, eventually, she snaps.

She’ll stalk away from a room. She’ll slam a book shut. She’ll answer Pete’s questions in a rather curt manner and, when he calls her out on her ‘bad mood’, she’ll punch his shoulder much harder than usual, too.

It’s a Myka-version of a temper tantrum.

And the one person in the whole world who can stop it is the same person who has caused it in the first place.

/  
The good news, though… oh, the good news is just really, really good.

/

Helena’s mouth is hot against Myka’s jaw and very distracting, so the papers slide from Myka’s fingers and whatever she was doing – which was cross-referencing artifact details with the Warehouse database – is quickly forgotten.

And they should talk about what they are doing, about what they have been doing ever since they stopped Walter Sykes and his hate-filled bomb… But Helena is shoving Myka backwards, their feet stumbling and their knees colliding while they kiss like there will never be another tomorrow.

And all the talking that they need to do just continues to drown in a sea of lust.

“I’ve got one hour…”

Helena’s voice is a mixture of pleasure and of pain, of what they could have with each other and of what they will allow themselves to have…

But they’ve only got an hour.

Myka pulls at Helena’s shirt until the buttons give way, clattering to the floor one by one, and the anticipatory groan that greets this action is enough to make Myka want to smash every clock in the universe.

“Then let’s make the most it.”

/

Myka isn’t afraid to admit that she is afraid. At least, she isn’t afraid to confess this truth to herself – wiping down the mirror after a shower and staring into her own eyes for minutes longer than she really should.

Myka knows that she is kind-of terrified.

No, not of being with a woman but of being with this woman in particular… She’s afraid of coins that split people apart, she’s fearful of how soul-crushing grief can turn into world-ending madness; she’s afraid that a day will come when Helena will walk out the door and never return.

Myka is afraid that all of this is temporary – and so she treats it as such.

/

Helena is getting dressed, pants slowly being tugged on again, and they are not facing each other right now.

And Myka stares at the back of Helena’s head and thinks ‘I love you.’

But by the time Helena turns back around, Myka is already walking towards the bathroom and they’ve still said nothing that should be said and Myka listens intently for the soft click of her door before her lips part in agonized wonder.

“I love you.”

/

She wakes up from a dream.

Honestly, though, it is more of a nightmare.

_Opening the door and looking down, there is Helena on the ground and Myka realizes that she is already crying, crying so hard that Helena’s features run like rivulets of water. She reaches out to touch Helena’s cheek and the skin falls apart like ash, flesh fluttering away like gray snow… and Myka reels back in horror as that single touch causes Helena to disintegrate before her very eyes._

_“No. No, no, no, no…”_

And Myka wakes up whispering that word, with pillow damp and with fists formed at her side instead of open hands. And it feels like a dark memory she has purposefully misplaced and it feels like all of her worries rolled up into one horrible conclusion and it feels like… it feels like…

_…like I am always running out of time, like I am always a million steps behind, like I am always going to lose her._

/

“The Regents tell me that there is the possibility that I could be fully reinstated by next month.”

And the sentence is dipping in and out of Myka’s awareness because Helena’s fingers are sliding across all of that slick heat so happily waiting to be stroked – legs open shamelessly and trembling with the thrusting to come.

But Myka does hear what is said.

And if her own head was not currently overcome with this symphonic rush of hot blood, then Myka is sure that she’d hear the pounding of her own heart – beating out a joy that she is reluctant to express just yet, beating out the same steady rhythm that has always been known as the H.G. Wells two-step, beating loud and proud because maybe… just maybe… they get to save the world together this time around.

Then Helena is inside of her, tongue swirling in her mouth and fingers pushing until they are buried so deep that Myka wonders if there will ever be a part of her that Helena will not find and will not claim.

And does it even matter when Myka wants nothing more than to be owned by this woman?

/

Helena is getting dressed, boot buckles done up so methodically, and Myka stares at the back of Helena’s head.

And she thinks ‘I love you.’

/

And by the time Helena turns back around…

/

“Are you hungry? Because, you know, Leena always makes too much when it comes to breakfast… Not sure if you remember that from when you were here last… but, uh, I am sure she’ll have more than enough and you should eat something before you go to… well, before you go.”

Helena’s smile is caught somewhere between caution and optimism, head pleasantly tilted to one side so that Myka can linger – for just a moment or two - on the smooth column of ivory-white neck so gloriously revealed by the light of day.

“Are you asking me to stay?”

/

_Oh, I am asking for so much more than that. You just do not know it yet._

/

And Myka nods her head, exhaling a relaxed sigh that sounds exactly like a ‘yes.’

/

-end-


	20. 'crown of silver'

~ ~

“Remember when you took me flying?”  
“Of course I do.”

/

I’ve lost you, haven’t I? Neither from the wicked hold of some artifact, nor from stray wounds that allow your blood to run in rivers cold – but I’ve lost you all the same.

/

“You… you were such a charmer…”  
“That’s only because I so wanted to charm you.”

/

And I think the only reason I go on living is for the moments when you look into my eyes and remember; so many memories, sharp for only seconds, flash in your gaze and I swear that I can see you falling in love with me all over again.

And that’s enough for me, you know?

That’s enough to bring on another breath or two.

/

“I love you… I never said it, I’m sorry I never said it… but I do, I love you…”  
“I know, Myka… I know.”

/

I still cherish the words you do not recall saying. I still find my heart beating quicker than before as you reach for my hand… and your fingers may be whittled down by time but your adoration is as strong as ever…

…so I place my lips to your crown of silver, as I have for years and years, and I adore you in return.

/

“Remember when you took me flying?”

And Helena tastes her own tears as she opens her lips to answer.

“Of course I do.”

/

-end-


	21. 'and all the clocks stop'

~ ~

Time always slows down when you don’t want it to.

It never crawls when you are in love and it never pauses to let you touch for a minute longer and it never stands still when you are content.

Those moments, those wonderful and perfect moments, just fly by…

…and then those moments are gone again.

/

It is their first kiss and, really, first kisses are usually more awkward than spectacular. Myka’s had a few ‘first kisses’ and each one had its drawbacks: too sloppy, too chaste, trying for tongue when she wasn’t interested or not trying at all when she was so there, so ready…

But first kisses are like milestones: you are 16 and no one has called you ‘kind-of cute’ before, you are twenty-something and ridiculously in-love with a not-so-free man.

And so this kiss is a milestone as well, a keeper amongst keepsakes, and - truth be told – this kiss is not awkward at all; this kiss is just the right amount of longing and just the right amount of tenderness, this kiss lingers on the bottom lip ( _savoring it, tasting it, taking it in_ ) and this kiss grows more desperate at the corners ( _incredibly eager but still so confident and still so damn brilliant_ ).

The only drawback that Myka can find with this first kiss – this rather lovely and amazing first kiss with Helena – is that it will be their last.

/

She doesn’t remember watching Helena die in some horrible white-hot glow, the woman enveloped and then rendered to less than dust; there’s no memory of that moment because it got erased long before Myka ever knew of its existence.

But all the loss that she was allowed to avoid has now come home and Myka won’t ever be able to forget.

Lips cool and skin loses its heat and it might as well be the end of the world all over again; it might as well be the barrel of a gun against her forehead, it might as well be shaking fingers moving chess pieces, it might as well be the ticking of a fucking bomb…

/

…and it’s only been seconds and Myka slowly pulls back, bleary-eyed and broken, and Helena is motionless in her arms.

/

And all the clocks stop.

/

-end-


	22. 'until the end'

~ ~

Fingertips brush, quick whispers of touch, but that is not enough… It’ll never be enough now, will it?

/

She’s seen the world end before.

She saw it disappear in her daughter’s eyes, flickering out like a flame being snuffed, and even a brand-new ice age couldn’t have left her as cold as that horrible day. But this is a slow death and the world crumbles underneath their feet, bit by bit, until seconds feel like hours and until… once more… the end feels like a twisted sort-of blessing in disguise.

No more pain. No more fighting against the tide. No more watching the ones you love perish.

No more mistakes. No more regrets. No more chances to mess everything up again.

/

But this is the end of all your chances – good or bad - and fingertips brush against one another, close but never close enough… It’ll never be close enough now, will it?

/

She’s seen the world begin again, too.

She saw its rebirth in Myka’s eyes, petals peeling back to embrace the sun, and she stood transfixed by something so wonderful in a world so unendingly cruel. But today isn’t a start at all and their world is spinning much too fast now, faster than it ever should, until each moment slips away as though it were never there and until… once more… the beginning feels like such a complete cosmic joke.

No more hope. No more last-minute rescues. No more watching the ones you love live.

No more apologies. No more forgiveness. No more chances to get everything right again.

/

And fingertips brush, stretching to find purchase on something worth remembering in a world that will soon forget them… and you take a breath, just like she once told you to do…

…you take a breath and you find her hand and you hold on…

/

Helena holds on until the end.

/

-end-


	23. 'maybe'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW-ish

~ ~

Maybe she should feel sad, like she is missing out on years of contentment; maybe she should feel anger, like all the good things in her life were just around the corner and now she’ll never know about them.

Maybe she should have listened to her father when he told her to stay in Colorado Springs. Maybe she should have listened to Tracy when they used to share a bedroom, always trying to lure that book-worm out of her dusty pages and into the ‘real’ world.

Maybe she should have quit after Sam; maybe she should have sunk into the sorrow and never got back up again.

Maybe, maybe, maybe…

/

They are trapped.

And yes, they’ve tried every way to get out – prying at the one door with fingers and then beating on it with fists, looking for secret panels to open or hidden levers to pull – but they remain in this room.

This room that is getting hotter and hotter by the minute since it is surrounded by fire.

And soon enough, they will be on fire, too.

Helena has finally stopped apologizing; it wasn’t her fault anyway. But that woman has an ego the size of the universe and it just loves to wallow – Myka is used to it by now. Just like she knows Pete inside-out, she knows Helena better than anyone, too.

She knows that Helena has a bit of a penchant for self-pity.

But it is too hot for pity and it is too hot for apologies and if this is the end… if this is the very end of everything that Myka will ever know…

…well, she doesn’t want to spend it coaxing Helena out of a funk.

/

Maybe she shouldn’t have waited for an inferno.

Maybe she should have made a move years ago, when Helena was first reinstated and lying to everyone. Maybe she should have knocked on that door instead of leaving it shut, stepping away like a shy teenager instead of walking through it like the adult-in-intense-attraction that she was... that she still is.

Maybe Helena should have pulled the trigger. Maybe Helena should have started a new ice age – at least they wouldn’t be burning up now… 

Maybe Myka has a morbid sense of humor right now.

/

They lean on the wall furthest from the door and Helena continues to tinker with the Farnsworth in her hands, willing it to work and then glaring at it when it does not. And their cell-phones are pointless, constantly roaming but finding nothing, and so Myka lazily slides it back and forth on the floor.

She blinks and can feel the sweat on her eyelids.

“Oh bollocks…” Helena’s voice is soft and irritated and the Farnsworth is tossed – quite unkindly – across the room.

And Myka watches as the woman leans her head back with a sigh; watches as strands of black hair stick to Helena’s face and as pale cheeks become flush with heat and as one more button loses its hold upon Helena’s shirt.

“I don’t want to die—“Myka begins to say and Helena interrupts.   
“I know. Neither do I.”

Myka rolls her eyes and then turns to face Helena.

“You didn’t let me finish.”

Helena looks over at Myka, tired and contrite, and then her gaze goes to her lap.

“Sorry.”

And Myka smiles in spite of all of this, reaching out to take one of Helena’s hands and holds it within her own.

“I don’t want to die without telling you some things that you need to know… That’s what I was going to say before you cut me off.”

But Myka is still smiling and still holding Helena’s hand and when their eyes meet…

…well, it’s kind-of like Helena already knows everything Myka is going to say anyway.

/

Maybe she was always going to fall in love with people like this – people who die on you, people who go crazy on you, people who can never stick around for long. Maybe her heart is hard-wired to fall for the difficult ones or the unavailable ones; maybe her heart is always falling before looking at just how far she has to go before she hits the damn ground.

Maybe it should have been Wells and Bering after all.

Maybe they should have said these things to each other a lot sooner, a lot sooner than this moment… this moment, with its flames and with its death…

Maybe this is the only way they’d every actually say anything at all.

Maybe they are both idiots, too.

/

And the words overlap and the sentiments melt into one another and – damn it all – they are going to die.

They are going to die before so many things can happen: a date or two or fifty, flirting between stacks of artifacts, banter and novel-speak and sex… 

…Myka has dreamt of sex with Helena, has woken up wet and frustrated and oh so weary.

And now those dreams are going up in smoke. Literally.

It isn’t until Helena’s thumb is gliding over her face, wiping away sudden tears, that Myka realizes she is crying.

She just thought it was more sweat.

“…I think we’ve said enough, don’t you?”

And Myka nods her head and she keeps on crying and then Helena is kissing her and, really, Myka just wants to cry harder now… But she pulls it together, breath hitching in her throat as her lips try to grapple with what her mind does not want to handle.

Helena’s mouth is cool and refreshing, like the shallows of a lake, and so Myka slips her tongue inside and they both moan at the sensation. And if the world is on fire, then the two of them are now lit: Helena’s hands are quick and talented, guiding Myka to the floor and unzipping and opening clothing along the way; Myka is more focus on whatever she can devour – Helena’s mouth and then the taut muscles of Helena’s neck, the lightly freckled expanse of the woman’s chest and then a hardened nipple… which elicits the most fantastic sort-of growl from Helena and Myka’s clit actually twitches in response to the sound.

/

Maybe they are going to fuck in this room that is probably only minutes away from being reduced to ash.

But, honestly, there’s no ‘maybe’ about this one.

/

Is it her heart pounding like mad? Is it a wall about to come down and crush their semi-clothed bodies? Is it some kind of terrible cliché, as though their desire has created a booming thunder that only they can hear?

Any of those options would be preferable to Myka right now.

The door busts open and a cloud of black enters first, followed by a wave of oppressive heat and then Pete’s voice yelling out for the both of them.

“Oh for fucks sake…” Myka mutters as the Helena turns into dead-weight for only a moment – sticky skin to sticky skin – and then the woman is off of Myka like a shot.

It’s not like Myka is ungrateful. She didn’t want to be roasted alive; she didn’t want to be a blackened corpse for her best friend to find. 

It’s just… well… Myka looks over at Helena, who appears incredibly poised all of a sudden – shirt buttoned up with efficiency and damp hair pushed back from the face - … it’s just that they were so close, in a way they neither of them have allowed up to this point, and Myka isn’t sure she can take two-steps back after plunging forward.

“Why didn’t you answer? What the hell is going on, Mykes?” Pete has found her and is pulling her up like she is a rag-doll, hugging her and chastising her at the same time. And then he is doing the same thing with Helena, which is funny to see on any day – even this one – because Pete knows it makes Helena uncomfortable and that’s (mostly) why he does it.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here before we end up barbecued… Ooh, barbecue…”

And Pete leads the way out, holding Myka’s hand as he tugs her along.

And Myka doesn’t look back but she holds her other hand out anyway, hoping that Helena will take it and give her some kind of sign that things are not over again, that things are going to change between them now.

But that hand remains empty.

/

…Okay, so, maybe they aren’t going to fuck today.

Maybe Myka is always wrong about these things. Maybe she is always getting the signals crossed or maybe she is always a day late, a dollar short.

Maybe Helena is too broken to give in when everything is fine, maybe Helena is too scared to do anything when their lives are not on the line.

Maybe they should just walk away. Maybe they should just end this game. Maybe they should just stop.

Maybe, maybe, maybe…

/

It’s late when she hears the knock on her bedroom door.

And the lights are off and Myka’s eyes were already fluttering towards sleep and she has to struggle to blink her way back to the alertness.

“Who is it?”

A quiet pause and then comes a muffled answer that sounds a lot like ‘Helena.’ And it takes an eternity for Myka to get up, to turn on a light again, to get to the door without falling over and then to open that door and see those eyes looking back at her.

“…Hey.”  
“Hello.”

They stare at each other and Helena folds her own hands together and Myka absent-mindedly rubs the back of her own neck.

“Did I wake you?”  
“Oh, uh, not really… I mean, I was drifting… you know, in and out…”  
“Right. Of course. I should have realized that you would be tired after… well, after all that happened today.”

Myka nods and Helena smiles – a little – and they both grow quiet after that.

/

‘Maybe’ is like saying yes and no simultaneously, though, isn’t it?

Never certain enough but never say never… right? And maybe that’s the real problem with the two of them; maybe they are just stuck on saying ‘maybe’, like that will save them in the end… save them from drama, save them from sorrow, save them from having to say good-bye to another soul loved far too well…

Maybe it’s finally time to stop with all the ‘maybes.’

/

“I am tired, actually, but… I think I could muster up enough energy if you were to stay for a while…”

One of Helena’s eyebrows goes up, a perfect arc displaying intrigue, and Myka has a sudden vision of dragging the tip of her tongue along its dark edge and her damn heart skips a beat.

“…And by ‘stay a while’, I mean I’d like for you to stay the whole night…”

And there, in Helena’s eyes, flashes the awareness and it causes the woman’s lips to involuntarily part and that’s it, you see…

…that’s all the acknowledgment that Myka needs.

She barrels forward and crashes into Helena’s body, a cannonball of want, and Helena catches her anyway; they kiss and they kiss and they kiss until they are just breathing in each other’s air and Myka feels light-headed but so very, very in love.

“I…I’d like to stay the whole night with you as well…” Helena says with a gasp and the words float over Myka’s face and they are – officially – the best words she has ever heard in her whole life.

/

No ‘maybe’ about it.

/

-end-


	24. 'wish it away'

~ ~

She wishes them all away – each and every one of them – and then she imagines reopening her eyes upon a brand new scene. No one is killing off Regents, no one is trying to ruin their lives, no one is teaching in Wyoming and no one is going to sacrifice themselves today.

She wishes them all away – Pete and his ‘greater good’, Claudia and her tears, Emily Lake and her make-believe life, and every single noble intention that is coming a year too late…

…She wishes them all away and reopens her eyes to a brand new world.

There are only trees, green and golden; there is only the sky, cloudless and blue, and Myka reopens her eyes and Helena is there – put back together like a puzzle.

The pieces fit and the image takes shape and no one has to die today… do they?

/

_“How do you say good-bye…”_

/

You don’t say it, that’s what you do. You don’t say good-bye at all, that’s what you do.

And she wishes all of this away – the hours that have passed and the days that have gone by – and then she imagines reopening her eyes upon a brand new existence. They never went to Egypt, they never ended up at Yellowstone, there was never a finger on the trigger and Myka never had to watch Helena get dragged away in handcuffs.

She wishes all of this away – this impotent anger, this terrible pain, and this impossible choice – and Myka reopens her eyes and Helena is there…

…Helena is there.

/

_“…to the one person who knows you better than anyone else?”_

/

I wish I knew.

I wish I knew how to never meet you. I wish I knew how to never trust you. I wish I knew how to never fall in love with you. I wish I knew how to let you go…

…and I wish I knew how to keep you close.

I wish I knew how to not lose you. I wish I knew how to save you from yourself. I wish I knew how to shake you and wake you up and make you see that this world isn’t right without you in it.

I wish you knew these things already, too.

/

Myka wishes everything away.

Everything except Helena and just a little more time.

/

-end-


	25. 'instead'

~ ~

…and instead of losing, they win.

/

July is the only time South Dakota feels truly warm.

And crickets take up residence with their nightly concert, singing songs that are somewhat deafening, but Myka pays them no mind. In fact, it would take something pretty impressive to divert her attention away from Helena right now.

Helena, who is standing silent as the sun descends in the sky; Helena, with pale feet bare against the cut grass and with head tilted back…

…Helena, who is surrounded by pinpoints of moving light as the fireflies of summer dance for hours on end.

And it would take something pretty amazing to tear Myka’s gaze away from Helena right now.

/

…and instead of dying, they live.

/

She rolls up each pants leg and she pulls the hair away from the back of her neck, a loose knot to combat the evening heat that likes to gather, and then she quietly steps off of the porch.

And a small breeze weaves its way through leaves up above, glancing over Myka’s skin with sweet relief quick to follow, before it softly whistles through the spaces that can no longer been seen as daylight fades from view.

“It is rather beautiful, isn’t it?”

And she knows that Helena means this place, this night, this moment that no one could have predicted happening – surviving the worst, changing for the better, being here when ‘here’ seemed like a lost dream and nothing more.

But, for Myka, Helena is the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen.

“Yes, it is.”

/

So slowly, as the horizon cools from orange to a million shades of blue, and so slowly, as those blues melt into endless black, and so slowly, as Myka draws nearer and nearer to Helena’s body, and so slowly, as she reaches out to slide fingertips down the length of Helena’s arm, and so slowly, so very slowly, Helena shifts into this contact and Myka closes her eyes and they are together.

They are finally together.

/  
…and instead of never, they have forever.

/

-end-


	26. 'and so i do'

~ ~

Sunlight through red and gold, turning your face into alabaster… and so I slide my fingers through your hair, hoping you stay asleep for a while longer, because you’ve never slept well in this day and age, have you?

I think you are restless, eyelids twitching like a dog’s paws, and I think you dream far too much about the past… and so I slide my fingers over your back, hoping you can feel my touch in such a slumber, because you deserve to rest well now, don’t you?

And it’s time for us to get to know one another…

…you know?

/

What Myka knows about Helena cannot be summed up with words, which is why they are never talking to each other; they just tend to stare and sigh and then someone interrupts this strange form of communication and they turn away again.

But what Myka knows about Helena cannot be summed up with words, which is why they come together like a magnet to a piece of iron – pulling against all tides, stuck with each other no matter what – and they’ve written stories, countless damn stories, about this love of theirs.

And it’s time to read a few of those tales out loud…

…isn’t it?

/

Strands of your hair begin to flutter, soft whispers of black against your skin, and you close your eyes and you smile into the breeze that moves over your face… and so I love you.

I love you.

I love you and it’s time to tell you so…

…right?

/

What Myka knows is that life is so very short and the things that you think you can hold onto will disappear; all good things will fade, all good people will go… somehow, someway… and what Myka knows is that life is so very short and time is always running out…

_…Time is always running so far away from you._

“I love you.”

/

…and so I do, Helena… and so I do.

/

-end-


	27. 'i am yours'

~ ~

Oh my dear, oh my darling… if we make it out alive… if we live to see another morning…

…know that I’ve always been waiting for you.

/

Helena has given up on the past.

She could never change it – not with machines, not with magic, not with her mind; she could never get back what she lost, it just kept slipping away…

And when she couldn’t follow those years down, she had to let them go. Not the memory, not the locket, no, never those – but the desperation, but the endless craving, but the madness…

She let it all go and found that the only thing left, the only thing that actually mattered now to these unencumbered eyes, was Myka Bering.

And Helena has given up on the past.

She lives for the future now.

/

Oh my love, oh my sweet, sweet girl… if we make it out alive… if we live to see another morning…

…know that you are the only reason I am here at all.

/

Helena has given up on dying.

She could never take that final step – not with bronze, not with ice, not with bombs at her fingertips; she could never seem to leave this terrible, wonderful world behind…

And so she keeps breathing, keeps walking, keeps running; running until the oxygen pulses through her body and she can feel the blood move and she isn’t racing away from this life now – she is hurrying towards something… towards someone…

And Helena has given up on dying.

She wants to live again.

/

Oh Myka… if we make it out alive… if we live to see another morning…

…know that I am, and always will be, yours…

…and yours alone…

/

-end-


	28. 'and then lazarus slept'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death

~ ~

You’ve fooled them all, haven’t you?

/

Helena stands for a long moment at the entrance to their bedroom, dark eyes running laps over a body she knows far too well – past palms against the sternum, curls falling into another face, lips wrapping around a phantom tongue –and she’d blink those eyes, she’d close those eyes if it did any good at all.

But closing those eyes never stops her from seeing.

And Helena has seen it all – the rise of dreams, the falling of hopes, the good dying young and the bad living on, the blood on ground and the tears down her cheeks…

_…I’ve seen you in love and I’ve seen you in pain and I’ve been the cause of both…_

And yet, when her head topples down – after love-making both vicious and victorious – Myka sleeps like a child and Helena remains awake.

Helena is always awake.

/

And you’ve memorized where the steps creak, where the walls sink during the night; you’ve taken notes within your mind of which doors do not open quietly and of what hour finds this whole house in slumber.

/

She wanted to see Christina again.

She wanted to see the future.

And she wanted to see the sky. And she wanted to see her mistakes wiped away.

Helena knows how to build machines that can cut through time like a knife and Helena knows how to deceive decent people with charm, with cunning, with cutthroat sincerity…

…but Helena didn’t know that to forfeit death – not once, not twice, but oh so often – did not automatically mean that she was meant to be alive.

It just means that she is here, ageless and unmoving and so very tired.

/

It’s not that you were unable to find happiness. It’s not that you were unable to find forgiveness.

But you were always unable to find respite, always unable to rest.

/

She holds the locket in one hand, Christina’s features obscured by the shadows, and she takes a deep breath – and there are the trees and there is the dirt and, beyond even that, there is love… the hearts lost and the hearts won, those words still unsaid and those desires still unnamed…

And she takes a deep breath and she pulls this blade over translucent skin and the clouds roll over the moon and Helena wonders how far the light will have to travel to reach her fluttering eyelashes.

And so she’ll see Christina again and the future doesn’t matter anymore and she looks to the sky and mistakes fall down like shooting stars.

/

And you’ve fooled them all, haven’t you?

/

And there is Myka, buried beneath blankets and beckoning Helena closer, and so she reaches out – and so she reaches out…

/

You’ve ruled the world and so you’ll ruin it, too…

/

-end-


	29. 'promises'

~ ~

You dug your hands into the mountain and then pulled me up to rest beside you. And I pressed cool lips to the rough slant of your face and we made a promise as stars exploded up above…

…we made a promise without a language, without words written down…

Your eyes tell me that you will find me.

And my heart knows to listen.

/

Scary how it happens, isn’t it?

One minute you are running down a street and the next minute you are falling into someone’s arms. One minute you are on your own and the next minute you are a part of someone.

And you dug your hands into my hair and then pulled me down on top of your trembling body. And I pressed warm lips the soft slope of your neck and we made a promise as bombs went off in the distance…

…we made a promise without speaking, without notes jotted down…

Your eyes tell me that you won’t lose me.

And my heart knows to believe.

/

And I pull the trigger and you fall back and your eyes tell me nothing.

And my heart knows to break.

/

I am your lover. I am your college dream. I am your sweet decline. And you are my king. And you are my soldier. And you are the end of me…  
…we made a promise… didn’t we?

/

Myka wraps her fingers around H.G. Wells’s neck and heat floods her body and pupils dilate in misguided hate and unexplainable desire and thank god Claudia is standing nearby because Myka just might kill this inventor from another era…

…or kiss her, or fuck her, or love her until the end of time.

/

Your eyes tell me everything…

…and my heart knows.

/

-end-


	30. 'she has a dream'

~ ~

In this dream you keep having, the world ends.

The world ends and your hand - a bit twisted, a bit battered - pushes out past this bluish-purplish glow. And it burns a little bit but you do not care; what does pain matter anyway, not when the world is ending…

And that man you love like a brother, he is reaching out for you - tugging at your arm, like a kid who wants desperately to follow in their older siblings footsteps - but you smile back at him.

He can’t run before he walks, after all.

And you don’t want to break his heart, but your heart - a bit twisted, a bit battered…

…your heart has become your master now and where it goes…

…where it goes…

She looks at you like you are mad. She looks at you like she could kill you right now - give her that gun again, give her those ancient weapons once more. She looks at you, so helpless and so hopeless, and she looks at you.

She looks at you and you look at her and it’s the end of the world, isn’t it?

She’s the end of your world - as she was always meant to be - and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

/

Myka has this dream and in this dream, the world is ending.

Or, rather… her world is ending. Her world just ends - it gets twisted, it gets battered - and there’s no time to force her body out of that protective shield. There’s no time to change her mind, to leave the Warehouse behind, to chase down the keeper of her heart…

…there’s no time…

But they are always running out of time.

They are out of time.

/

She has this dream.

And this dream is merely reality.

/

(end)


	31. 'the blue lady'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU; for Halloween

~ ~

Myka Bering is a skeptic.

After all, that’s her job – to doubt, to question, and to suggest a rational alternative instead of readily buying into the decidedly irrational. While Pete runs around in the dark, loudly whispering ‘Did you hear that?’, and while Claudia holds the EVP field-processor up in the air, muttering about cold spots and electrical spikes…

…Myka stands there with her arms crossed over her chest, silently daydreaming about how good a cup of coffee would taste at this ungodly hour.

And Myka rolls her eyes a little harder when the ‘medium’ starts talking about a great evil, about dark cloaks and Satan’s presence all over this restaurant - which used to be an inn… which used to be someone’s home… which, apparently, used to belong to some kind of demonic cult.

_God, the stories are all the same…_

And the cameras keep rolling in the background, working ‘round the clock to plaster their sickly, green-ish hued faces upon television screens (oh thank you so much night-vision lighting!) and everyone but Myka claims to have seen a shadow move along the wall or that they felt the ghostly touch of an unseen – but very real – lingering spirit.

Myka Bering just feels tired.

/

Tracy always looks so disappointed, shaking her head across the dinner table during another bizarre Bering family get-together. But then Tracy is always disappointed with something – her husband’s middle-class job, her child’s B+ grades, the increasing price of her favorite cut of meat at the deli, the slightly uneven hem of a 50% off dress in just her shade…

Tracy lives for disappointment.

Myka, on the other hand, lives to be proven wrong… about a lot of things.

Tracy swears that if their parents had not been so metaphysically-minded and such new-age ‘weirdos’ while they were growing up then the two of them could have done the ‘normal’ teenage thing – drinking and back-seat sex and all that other sowing of wild oats shtick that every movie in the world makes a million-dollars off of.

Tracy is disappointed with their entire childhood.

Myka thinks their childhood was pretty good – at least for a while, at least until their father sold everything in order to start an ashram and then claimed that he was possessed by the spirit of a powerful Yogi from India…

…Yeah, after that, Myka was a bit disappointed, too.

But where Tracy decided to distance herself from the Bering way of life, Myka wanted to understand it.

Just like those characters on that old television show, the one her mother swore was more ‘true to life than the nightly news’, Myka Bering is a combination of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.

She wants to believe – but she demands irrefutable proof first.

/

So far, though, Myka hasn’t found what she is looking for.

And she is starting to wonder if she ever will.

/

“People who walk onto the second floor of this bed-and-breakfast talk about the sensation of being watched… Members of the cleaning staff have seen objects move without provocation… and one guest, who asked that their name be withheld, claims to have felt the icy touch of the spirit everyone calls The Blue Lady…”

Pete is really hamming it up tonight and Myka has to swallow down a chuckle of her own as she watches Claudia silently giggle. The cameraman zooms in a little tighter upon Pete’s face for the final shot and Pete’s face becomes this ridiculous mixture of serious anchorman and soap-opera heartthrob.

“…And tonight, myself and my crew, are going to investigate the second floor of Leena’s B&B of Univille, South Dakota… to solve the mystery of The Blue Lady…”

Pete maintains his suave-stoic expression for a few more seconds until the cameraman says ‘cut.’ And then Claudia laughs out loud, saying something about Pete pulling out all the stops with his ‘Stone Phillips-style’ jawline and Pete just smirks at them both.

“This is part of the deal, ladies. Our faces and our personalities make this show just as much as the ghosts we look for.”

Claudia just waves off his comments as she begins set up various pieces of equipment, turning on this and that with practiced efficiency.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever… let’s get this show on the road. The batteries are already getting drained by something in here and I only have one more pack charged up.”

Pete rubs his hands together like a kid in a candy shop and then the lights are turned off – one by one – until they are all in the eerie semi-darkness of camera-light and the orange glow of Claudia’s ‘toys.’

/

“Right. Time to split up.”  
“What?”  
“You heard me.”  
“But… we never split up.”  
“Well, now we do.”  
“…Why?”

Claudia and the cameraman are quiet as Myka and Pete have a somewhat tense conversation in the hallway on the second-floor. At first, they were moving from room-to-room, asking for contact and checking hot and cold spots – to no avail – for thirty minutes or so.

And now Pete is suggesting that they split up… which is something that they never do.

“Because the powers-that-be think it would be a good idea to see some individual reactions, that’s all.”

Myka is glaring at Pete now. And even though he can barely see her patented ‘death-stare’, she knows that he can feel the intensity of it on his face because his hands go up in a placating manner.

“You’re the non-believer, Myka. They want to see you come into contact with a ghost or something… They think it’ll boost ratings.”

Myka continues to glare.

“Just, you know, fake a reaction if you have to. Get it over with, okay?”

Pete shoves one of the hand-held cameras into her arms and ushers Claudia along to another room. The cameraman sort of stands there, shuffling on his feet as Myka turns her glare to the JVC she now holds, and Pete quickly returns – taking the cameraman with him.

“Claudia’s in the honeymoon suite. I’m taking the room that overlooks the drive. You’ve got the garden room. And just… just do what we always do… and try to sound, you know, enthused.”

Myka is tempted to just record herself saying ‘fuck you’ over and over.

/

It has nothing to do with being left along in a supposedly haunted house.

It has more to do with the producers thinking that they need to ‘break’ her.

Myka isn’t here to have her faith shattered; Myka is here to have it restored.

_Doesn’t anyone get that at all?_

/

“Is there anyone in this room that wishes to speak with me?”

Myka’s voice is steady and she pans the camera from left to right slowly. She holds certain shots for five seconds, just in case there is movement or orbs that will then be seen upon replay.

“You can let me know if you are here with some kind of sound or distinct noise.”

She continues to pan the camera and the room remains quiet. Myka sighs as she slowly steps backwards, fingertips soon finding the wall and then she slides down to sit on the floor. She tilts the camera lens until she knows that it is pointing at the ceiling and allows her head to thud against the ivy-themed wall at her back.

“Are you as bored as I am, Blue Lady?”

And it is soft at first, like the faint tinkling of glass upon glass, but Myka hears it. And she turns the camera in the direction she thinks the sound is coming from, holding for five seconds and then ten seconds…

And Myka isn’t at all embarrassed to admit that the camera angle is not the only thing she is holding.

Each breath of air stays in one spot for far too long, somewhere between her lungs and her throat, and she waits for what seems like an eternity for something – _anything_ – else to happen.

/

And then it does.

/

“Very much so.”

The response, so delicate yet so clear, floats over Myka’s cheek like a cool breeze and the shock is enough to cause Myka to curse out loud, which ends up being some odd combination of ‘jesus fucking christ’ and ‘holy shit.’

Not to mention that Myka also drops the camera to the floor.

There is the very distinct sound of laugher – of female laughter – shifting around the dark room and as Myka tries to pull herself together, hands grappling around for the camera, the voice slides up close again – this time on the opposite side of Myka’s face.

“Such a filthy mouth for such a pretty woman.”

_It could be the innkeeper. It could be one of the staff. It could be Pete fucking with me in order to get better ratings for this silly show._

Myka finally grabs onto the JVC hand-held camera and flips the view-screen open. Everything still works, thankfully, and she starts scanning the room while studiously watching the screen for any sign of this… person… _or, you know, whatever_ … in the room with her.

And there, on the screen but not at all in front of her damn eyes, is a shape – all at once formless but with some kind of definition. And it seems to fade in and out, to undulate like waves of smoke, and Myka is transfixed – eyes growing wide with the realization that this could be it.

This could be what she has looked for, searched for… This could be Mulder’s UFO and Scully’s God… This could be what her parents have preached about for years and years… This could be the end of Tracy’s bitter disappointment…

And, for a brief moment, this hazy figure becomes sharp; the mist turns into features and there is an outline of blue that shines out past the night-vision of the camera – and it is a woman, with lips and eyes and cheekbones and flowing locks of hair… and this… this…

_Ghost. It’s a ghost. You are looking at a ghost._

…ghost smiles at her and Myka, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, is smiling back.

“I hate being called The Blue Lady. My name is Helena.”

And then the ghost – _Helena_ – is gone again and the camera battery goes dead.

/

Myka isn’t sure what she is doing.

Myka isn’t sure why she is doing it either.

But she removes the SD card from its slot on the side of the camera and shoves it deep into her pants pocket. And when they all meet up again, she shrugs her shoulders and says ‘nothing happened, sorry’ and Pete reluctantly calls it a night.

/

The owner of the inn, Leena, looks briefly behind Myka for the rest of the paranormal investigation team and then her kind gaze is fully back on Myka once more.

“All on your own today?”  
“Uh… yes. Yeah, I just wanted to do some follow up studies… if that’s all-right? I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead.”  
“Oh, it’s no trouble. Everyone is excited about when the episode will air… It kind of puts our little bed-and-breakfast on the map, you know?”

Myka nods in understanding and Leena welcomes her in with a sweep of the arm. And, in a way, Myka is not lying – she snagged the JVC during Claudia’s long weekend and she will do some recording. But, in a way, Myka is lying because… well, no one knows that she is here again.

Not Claudia. Not Pete. No one.

“I’d like to spend the night again but you don’t have to empty the place out. I’ll, uh, talk to some other guests… if they are willing, of course…”  
“Sure. I’ll mention it and see if anyone is interested.”  
“Thanks. And… if it is available… I’d like the garden room during my stay.”

Leena walks over to the desk, flipping through the registrar, and she looks back up at Myka with a grin.

“Well, you’re in luck… The couple who had the room checked out yesterday, so it is all yours.”

Myka nods her head in an off-handed way, but her grip upon the strap of her duffle-bag grows tighter in anticipation.

“Great.”

/

“Oh. It’s you.”

It is just as startling this time as it was last time and Myka nearly throws herself out of the bed. Instead of her body tumbling to the ground, though, she curses – again – and this ghost… _Helena_ … laughs – again.

Myka reaches over to turn on the lamp but just as her finger touch the cool, metal base…

…the lamp is gone.

Myka hears the thud of it hitting the floor and then she frowns into the darkness.

“I need to be able to see.”  
“Why? You can hear me.”  
“I want to get my camera.”

The ghost – _Helena_ – seems to sigh in annoyance.

“Please, no more of those infernal things. I am weary of my image being captured.”  
“’Image being captured?’ That’s a funny way of putting that… Just how old are you?”  
“A lady never tells such things.”

Myka’s lips are turning upwards, smile curious and amused, and there is this funny feeling in the pit of her stomach – a fine sort-of fluttering – and she tries to ignore the sensation even as it grows and grows.

“If I promise to leave the camera alone, will you answer some questions?”

And there is a shifting of the mattress and Myka swears that she can feel pressure on her shoulder – pushing her back, pushing her down – and it is warm and it is cold and it is strong and it is tender and she blinks rapidly into the shadows and there in the surrounding night, like a sudden flash of lightning, is Helena’s face in front of hers… _smiling so very wickedly…_

“Only if you answer some in return.”

/

Myka stays the entire weekend.

And she feels kind of insane. And she feels kind of amazing. And she wants to call up her parents, to tell them that she finally believes – that she has seen, that she has heard. And she wants to drag Tracy to this room and have Helena scare the shit out of her.

Myka wants to tell the whole world about this… and then she doesn’t want a single other soul to ever know.

/

They trade information each night.

_“What year is it?”_  
 _“2012.”_  
 _“Oh, well, I suppose that means I am… old. Quite old.”_  
 _“That’s not a real answer.”_  
 _“Over one-hundred is as much as you shall get.”_

And during the day, Myka talks to various guests and compares their accounts with her own - just in case she is somehow making every bit of this up and now needs to call the men in white coats to come pick her up…

…but all signs point to Myka’s complete and utter sanity.

_“Did you die here?”_  
 _“Yes.”_  
 _“What happened to you?”_  
 _“I choked on an over-cooked piece of mutton.”_  
 _“…Are you serious?”_  
 _“Not in the slightest.”_

Sometimes, Myka falls asleep in the middle of whatever they are talking about and she dreams about Helena. She dreams about Helena as the woman used to be – when alive – and Myka watches Helena walk down the stairs and into the foyer. And the woman always turns around, always extends a hand towards Myka and Myka wants to—

But Myka always wakes up.

_“What is it that you hope to gain from conversing with me?”_  
 _“The truth about what happens when we die, why some people stay and why some leave…”_  
 _“And you think I know the answers to these inquiries?”_  
 _“Don’t you?”_  
 _“…I don’t know if I know anything beyond the life I once led…”_

Myka lies very still and one hand clutches onto the sheet while the other hand rest anxiously upon her shirt-covered abdomen – and then she feels it. It sort of stings and it sort of soothes and it causes her to shiver and it causes her to sweat and, if Myka focuses for long enough, she can see a hand the color of a cloudless autumn sky sliding over her bare arm.

And Myka really doesn’t know what hell she is doing anymore.

_“…What do you know?”_  
 _“I know that I am speaking to you and…”_  
 _“…And…?”_  
 _“…And I know that I want you to stay.”_

/

Pete isn’t sure what is going on and, when he asks Claudia about it, she is as clueless as he is. But the JVC camera is sitting on his desk in an opened cardboard box with a short letter attached.

It is a resignation letter from Myka Bering; it is a resignation letter from Myka Bering that explains nothing at all about why she is leaving. It’s just a camera and a strange good-bye that makes no sense.

And the producers are angry. And Claudia is confused. And Pete… well, Pete isn’t sure how he feels, not when he reads over this glorified note once more and cannot make heads nor tails of it.

And it is that last line that gets to him the most…

It’s that last line that makes it sound like wherever Myka is – and whatever Myka has found there – is what she has been looking for all along.

But the phone starts ringing and new cases await his attention and he finally shoves Myka’s resignation letter into the top drawer of his desk – gone but not forgotten… just like the ghosts he chases day after day…

/

_Pete—_

_Tell Claudia I am sorry about taking one of her cameras without asking. The battery is charged, though, and I even threw in a new SD card. I won’t be back to work on the show anymore. I know I am owed a check or two, so just have them forwarded to my parent’s place in Colorado for now._

_Keep fighting the good fight, Lattimer._

_The truth is out there, you know? And I’ve found it at last._

_Myka_

/

(end)


	32. 'getting things right'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible spoilers for the upcoming second-half of S4

~ ~

It’s a regular, average sort-of day and she is walking into the Warehouse – like she always does – and it only takes her a second, just a single second, to recognize the back of the head that is attached to the body that sits at Artie’s desk.

Back of the head – black hair in a messy bun; papers shuffling through quick-moving fingers – long, pale fingers; rolling to one corner and then the next, chair wheels slightly squeaking – a sigh, a huff of annoyance, and muttering from lips that Myka cannot see…

“You’re back.”

Myka says the words so slowly that it’s like her brain is on drugs, just like those horrible PSA’s from her teenage years used to warn about – eggs in frying pans, grades falling on report cards, life down the drain…

Helena turns around and blinks at her from behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“Back from where? I’ve been here all night, working and trying to figure out the connection between that last artifact and what has happened.”  
“…What’s happened?”

Helena looks at her closely now, peering at her in a manner most curious, and Myka does the same thing – studying, observing – and that’s when she looks – really looks – at Helena’s clothes.

Drab and dark green button-up – a little too large on Helena’s small form; an equally dull beige jacket-thing over the button-up – again, large and flowing… one could swim in its suede-like surface…

“What are you wearing?”

Helena’s reaction seems so familiar, so comically short-tempered and so damn familiar, and the woman spins back around to the face Artie’s desk once more.

“What are _**you**_ wearing?”  
“But…it’s just not like what you—“  
“Do you work here as a fashion consultant? Or are you here to snag, bag and tag artifacts? Hmm?”  
“God, you sound like Artie…”

Artie. Artie’s desk. Artie’s chair. Artie’s…

“…Where’s Artie?”

Another sigh, another spin around in the chair, another exasperated glare from behind wire-rimmed glasses – and Myka’s own eyes go so wide that she fears they will fall out of their sockets.

“Who is this Artie you keep talking about anyway?” Helena asks.

/

_…there’s a needle and there’s a thread and someone is pulling you through someone is pulling you and then you are talking but no one can hear you and then you are screaming and no one can hear you and you reach out and there’s nothing… there’s nothing and there’s no one… there’s just you…_

/

“Agent Bering.”

That voice, oh she knows that voice, but not in this way and she turns as if motorized – click by click, gear by gear – and there he is, in a suit and a tie and shiny leather shoes, and it is Pete but it’s not Pete at all.

“…Are you all-right, Agent Bering? Helena… what’s going on? Is it the artifact again?”

Helena is up and moving around Myka’s stock-still body, searching and seeking and head nodding along with some internal conversation. And Pete is staring at her, weirdly impenetrable and strangely detached, hands clasped before him like a priest.

“I think so, Mr. Lattimer. I’ve been researching all night and I’ve found more questions than answers… But I have managed to rule out quite a few theories… Not the chess piece, not the feather, not some Victorian grappling hook…”

They are both watching her and Myka shakes head – once, twice, three times – and it hurts to move suddenly. It hurts to move her head, hurts to shift her neck, and she groans in pain – and Helena is guiding her to a chair. And Pete is lingering nearby. And this isn’t right… None of this is right… None of this is as it should be…

“You’ve become Artie…” Myka says, looking into Helena’s bespeckled gaze, and the woman merely tilts her head inquisitively.

“She keeps mentioning this ‘Artie’, Mr. Lattimer. Do you know the name at all?”

And Myka looks over at Pete, pointing at him accusingly.

“And you’ve become Mrs. Frederic!”

“Agent Bering, can you give us any details to go along with these names?”

Details, details… Myka’s mind is full of details… Myka’s mind is made of details…

/

_…and you feel it and you feel it go in deeper and you feel it sink into your flesh and then you explode and then you burn and then you watch a million shades of red leave your body like a river and you are not a swimmer but you feel it you feel it you feel your life leaving you and you wonder… you wah-wah-wah wonder… if this is what it is like to cross the English Channel… and you are lost again… oh you are so very lost…_

/

Claudia makes her a sandwich and Myka’s stomach aches – not from hunger, from something else – and she looks around for Leena. But then she remembers that Leena is gone, Leena is lost, and she can’t eat now.

Claudia places a warm hand on her shoulder and smiles at her so softly and Myka feels like crying.

“It’ll be okay, Myka. Your aura is a little cloudy, but it will be okay.”

No, no, no – not like this, not like this… and Myka pushes away from the kitchen table; she backs away from Claudia’s concerned gaze and from her flour-covered hands and she runs upstairs to her room. Her room, with all of her things, and she looks at them – one by one…

…The tesla on the nightstand, the books upon the shelves, the bed unmade…

“I don’t leave my bed unmade.” Myka says aloud as her arms wrap protectively around her body, sides aching and stomach churning, and a rueful chuckle sneaks up from behind her.

“Yes, well, that’s my fault… I was never one for being tidy, I’m afraid…”

And then Myka is being turned around and then Myka is being kissed – very gently, very warmly – and it is Steve’s lips on her own and she thought Steve was gay and then he is pulling back, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Are you still not feeling well, Myka?”

Myka thought Steve was gay… and she thought Steve was American. But he just kissed her and his voice has an accent – a very British-sounding accent – and she’s not feeling well at all actually.

“Steve…”  
“Yes, darling?”  
“…Jesus Christ…”  
“…Superstar?”

And the pain turns into stabbing and the stabbing turns into bile rushing up her throat and then she is running into the bathroom, heaving up everything that could possibly be within her gut, heaving until she is coughing and until tears are streaming down her face.

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.”

/

_…wake up wake up wake up and you think it sounds like your heart beating and you think it sounds like your father and you think it sounds like someone else someone else someone a lot like you and you want to answer you want to shake yourself you want to wake up… wake up wake up wake up… why can’t you wake up?_

/

Steve wants her to rest. Claudia wants her to eat. Pete pops up and pops away at random and Myka wishes he would stay – wishes he would make a stupid joke so she could punch his arm and laugh at his over-exaggerated pain.

Myka wishes for a lot of things, though.

And she walks into the Warehouse, just like she always does… just like she always has… and Helena sits at Artie’s desk and papers are being tossed around and that messy bun of black-hair is falling apart now and Myka wishes, oh she wishes for a lot of things…

“You should be resting. I can take care of this. I’ll figure it out.”

But Myka just lowers herself to the floor, right by Helena’s feet, and ignores the way Helena looks at her – like she is crazy, like she is in trouble – because she is both of these things. She must be mad, this must be madness, and so Myka is insane.

And her head topples sideways until it lands upon Helena’s knee.

“I know you will. I know you will save me. You always do.”

And there is the barest pressure of a palm against the top of Myka’s head – and it is tentative and it is tender and it is as close as they have ever been and Myka wishes that this moment, this singular moment, had happened at the very beginning.

“I wish…”  
“You wish…?”  
“I wish we could be as we once were and do it right this time.”

And the palm slides over her curls, smoothing them out, and lingers, lingers, lingers.

“So do I, Myka.”

/

_…you wish he had been late you wish you had been better you wish you had seen it all sooner you wish for more time you wish for another chance you wish she was still here you wish he had told the truth you wish you didn’t know you wish you could say all of this… all of this mess… all of this mess that is your heart…  
…you wish you could wake up and do it right this time…_

/

She is gagging and something is pulled out of her throat and someone is telling her to breathe and so she does. And when she tries to look around, her vision is blurry; when she tries to speak, nothing comes out and someone tells her to rest, to remain calm, and she doesn’t want to obey these orders – but her body is doing these things anyway, against her mind’s will.

And the last thing she hears is someone say ‘…thank god…’ and then her eyes are closed again.

/

She is awake, blinking until things make sense again, and it is all pastel walls and dim lighting and a television on but no sound. And she turns her head, so very slowly, and she tries to take a deep breath but her stomach contracts and it feels like agony and she doesn’t inhale so much as she whimpers.

And suddenly a hand is cupping her face and Myka blinks and it is Helena up above her.

“Myka…”

It is a whisper. It is wounded. It is… It is Helena and it is glorious and Myka has no idea what the hell is going on but this moment, this singular moment, might as well be a wish coming true.

“I knew you’d figure it out.” Myka murmurs, dry lips curving upward in a pained and medicated smile, eyelids already fluttering to shut once more… and she feels Helena’s fingers slide over her skin, smoothing down the surface, and somewhere in the distance she hears Pete – asking questions and sounding relieved and she feels his strong, sure grip upon her hand and…

/

_…you’ll get it right this time._

/

(end)


	33. 'Emily Lake'

~ ~

Emily Lake is not Helena.

Even from a distance, this fact remains painfully true. It is the way the woman walks (polite and aimless instead of smooth and determined), the way she holds things in her hands (car keys, a pencil, a cup of coffee); in the end, it is everything about this woman that reminds Myka of just how reality stands these days.

And she couldn’t watch, so she walked away (she couldn’t stay at the Warehouse, once upon a time, so she ran away); and she can’t seem to let go, so she decides to not even try to release this hold upon a love that never happened…

…but…

Emily Lake is not Helena.

And the closer that Myka gets, the more apparent this difference is. It is in the woman’s eyes (calm when they should be storm-filled), it is in the woman’s smile (shy when it should be knowing); in the end, it is everything about this woman that causes Myka to ache, once more, for time to turn backwards.

And she couldn’t watch, so she walked away.

And nothing has been right since.

/

(end)


	34. 'let's do it again'

/

Let’s do this again, if we can - that’s what your sad, sad eyes say to me and I’d love to listen; I’d love to reach out - in that other world, the world you wanted to destroy and the world in which I fell in love with you… I’d love to reach you in that other world.

And talk you down before you ever got to the edge.

Let’s do this again, if we can - that’s what I daydream about in between artifact runs and the day-to-day grind; that’s what I ponder and find pleasure in as you rot away in some kind of clever prison. And I don’t think about the barrel of your gun to my forehead (the imprint burns, it left a mark that only you and I can see) and I don’t think about your intangible state (how I wanted to touch you, how I wanted to be able to hurt you and then take it all back) and I don’t think much anymore anyway.

I don’t think because to think means to think of you.

Let’s do this again, if we can… if we can… Oh Helena, can we?

/

(end)


	35. 'and she doesn't even know me'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Myka to/about H.G., based off of this: kleptosrbetterlovers.tumblr.com/post/36910799389/and-she-doesnt-even-know-me-standing-in-front

~ ~

and she doesn’t even know me - standing in front of chalk lines with eyes so blank and backed by an accent that doesn’t ring true; and she doesn’t even know how amazing she actually is - standing beside me as I try to look away from these swatches of exposed skin but all I can do is helplessly stare; and she doesn’t have a fucking clue - standing in front of me with hands raised as though I won’t pull the trigger, as though I won’t be the one to bring her in again; and she doesn’t get it at all - standing silent before me because all of our chances have been used up and I’m not the one to blame but I am still losing out… I am still losing everything, too; and she doesn’t feel this touch - and I am reaching out before I can stop myself and I want her to be real and I want to shake her and I want… I want…; and she doesn’t know how to stay away - and I shouldn’t like that about her, I shouldn’t like the fact that she pushes and she prods and she digs past the layers like I am easy to read after all; and she doesn’t know how to stay out of trouble - and I always imagined that we’d be close one day but not like this, not like this at all, and yet the rope pulls us closer and if this is one way to go, it’s better than most; and she doesn’t know that I have fallen in love with her - but I know… I know that it is more than infatuation on the boil, more than a name I once knew as a child… I know that I have fallen, am falling, will fall and fall and fall…

…and she comes from around the corner and I smile and now this world is exactly as it should be.

/

(end)


	36. 'two seconds'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> during S2's 'Buried'

~ ~

It is as simple as this: two seconds of skin against skin, sliding in order to linger, and then gone again.

It is just that simple to turn words (thirteen year-old dreamer) into reality (shooting up into the sky, your arm around my waist); it is just that simple for Helena to turn each lock and find Myka’s heart on the other side…

…waiting, always waiting, just waiting for a touch like this one…

And there’s a promise there and it has nothing to do with madness, with grief, with loved ones lost; there’s a promise there and Myka is waiting…

…always waiting, just waiting for Helena to finish what she has started.

/

(end)


	37. 'see right through me'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> during S3's 'The New Guy'

~ ~

Unlike everyone else, you do not see right through me; you look right at me and so I am reminded - once again - of this in-between life I lead.

I am part ghost and I am part human.

And even now, you do not shy away like you should. You try to touch what is no longer there; you try to understand my scribbled-out nonsense and you try to balance letting go with love…

…But don’t you know the truth by now, Myka? 

I fear and so I hate; I fear a life after my child’s demise and so I hate this world without her in it. I fear and so I hate; I hate forgetting her with the birth of so many new feelings and so I fear this world with you in it.

I fear this forgiveness. I fear this acceptance and this joy… I fear you…

And even now, I do not shy away like I should. I try to reach out to you and I try to speak to you; I try to make sense after being so senseless and I try to balance letting go with love…

…and you see right through me.

/

(end)


	38. 'a small price to pay'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S4 AU-ish; death

~ ~

_“Don’t you ever get tired of this?”  
“Yes… but it is a small price to pay.”_

What you owe her is far too much; this debt will forever go unpaid. And, of course, Myka does not see things this way… and that’s just fine. Because your methods are your own, aren’t they?

Knives and blood in Paris. Yellowstone and icy rage. Janus and the many faces. Fifty-six seconds and a paltry ‘thank you’ for a good-bye kiss.

And oh… you’ve yet to make good on that flirtatious promise. And those lips of Myka’s must be aching because yours are raw with wanting. But what you owe her is everything - and everything just happens to be your life.

Again and again.

You hold the astrolabe close, like a lover… like a lover you never got to hold at all… and you don’t need the sky this time, you don’t need to smell apples, you don’t need to be brought back to the land of the living - like a well-preserved corpse - only for the world to find new ways in which to kill you.

You are looking into her eyes. You are taking the time to memorize her face because, soon, she won’t remember this moment and… soon… you won’t remember anything at all.

It will be you and the spinning clocks once more.

_“It’s not a small price for me, Helena… It never has been…”_

It will be you and minutes falling from the heavens like snow.

_“…I know.”_

It will be you and another hour of madness and they’ll lock you away again - or put a bullet in your head - and you’ll finally be a relic while the world heals, while the world renews, while the world goes on - finally - without you.

_“But you, Myka Bering, are worth such a payment.”_

Myka’s lips part with words about to be said and those green eyes grow wet with tears about to fall and a hand reaches out for someone about to disappear…  
…and then their world - the one with all the love they could have shared with one another - is gone.

/

(end)


	39. 'Helena'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the days after S2 ending & during S3's 'The New Guy'

~ ~

She put the pieces of her broken heart between the pages - Hemingway, Faulkner, Shakespeare, Austen, Poe, and Brontë - and reminds her eyes to read such words on some other day.

There will be other days ahead, after all - time enough for the gentle slope of familiar, soul-shattering letters to burrow back into Myka’s thoughts.

 _‘H‘_ … drifting over passages, sinking into her skin like ink onto paper.  
 _’e‘_ … curling over the corners, only to fall into her palms like drops of water.  
 _’l‘_ … lingering and lurking and lamenting and longing, so much damn longing.  
 _’e‘_ … these are not tears from the sky but from the cracks she cannot mend.  
 _’n‘_ … so her breath catches and so her bones freeze and so the world stops.  
 _’a‘_ ………..this is the end of us, the end of all that could have been, the end of our never-ever…ever-after…

And Myka grips the spine until it splits once Helena disappears again.

/

(end)


	40. 'all our visions have come to pass'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU

~ ~

_…If I look up at you now, will your face resemble the sun? …Or will your features fade like dying stars, leaving me forever cold? If I look up at you now, will you see me – buried under mud, bleeding in the darkness… will you see your soldier now?_

/

We were born to bow and scrape. We were born to kneel and serve. And so I take to the roads, boots thick with sweat, and I dream of you.

The king’s daughter, sitting on a throne of the finest gold, as his words rain down on us like blessings… and still, by the small smile upon your lips, you must know that none of us fight for an old man’s crown.

It is not for glory that we ride; it is not for scars with stories to tell and it is not for a kingdom’s worth of purple blossoms scattered at our feet…

…it is for you.

All of this madness is for you.

/

Shoulders sore, back aching, and the sound of good-natured laughter follows her as she forces her legs to straighten, to walk away from the practice field as though her whole body does not want to shake and fall apart. But soon the shadows are hers to hide within and she crumbles against a barrack wall – completely spent and breathing heavily.

“You are improving day by day.”

Those captured by love are quick to find strength – that’s what every poet claims to be true. And so it is, as this voice finds Helena at her weakest and, suddenly, her muscles are quick to move once more. And her weary arms open as though unburdened and Myka Bering rushes into this embrace.

“I am managing, my beloved. No more, no less.”

And lips brush against Helena’s cheek, soft and familiar, and senses usually rational are flooded with sweet things and even sweeter feelings – oranges and cinnamon along Myka’s skin, the delicate curl of brown hair, and the gorgeous sting of endless affection…

“By winter, you shall stand above them all. Has it not been foreseen?”  
“It has.”  
“And have all of our other visions come to pass as well?”  
“They have.”  
“Then doubt no more, my soldier…”

And so words cease as they kiss; as they kiss until they share breath and – in the end – are left breathless.

/

I wake up and I smell the smoke first. Death’s scent, ever a constant, arrives soon after.

And I remember the day your father laid his hand upon the top of my head, like God on high, and bid me good fortune in his name… ‘For your home and for your King – for they are one in the same.’

And I looked to you – resplendent in white, with flames reflected in your gaze – and I wanted for nothing.

But for today, I want; for today, I ache and I weep and I bleed. Because, for today, the sword is heavy in my hands and you are so very far away and…

…I am here, watching a man stare in shock as I shove this blade deeper into his gut and rich, red life slides over my fingertips like water…

/

_All our visions, my beloved, have come to pass._

/

Helena waits and waits, impatience and jealously burning hot in her veins as she watches Myka spin around the room with each man there – smiling at their manners, laughing at their fumbling flirtations, graceful to a fault.

And she is not one to drink – dulls the reflexes, dulls the mind, too – but the temptation is there nonetheless. And so, on this night, she breaks one of her own cardinal rules and raises one tankard too many with her fellow soldiers.

“To the King!”  
“To his fine daughter!”  
“To my blade and to yours!”  
“To death! May we never fear its bony grasp!”

And many other toasts are made; quite a few towards women of the brothels and their particular abilities – and Helena laughs heartily at these declarations, though she has not had the pleasure of such coin-bought delights. She has been, foolish though it may sound, faithful to the one she so desires – and so no other lips have touched hers.

But Myka spins around and around and around, doing her duty with such gaiety… and Helena wonders – in her stupor of drink – if holding fast is for the good or all for naught…

“You look fit to be tied… Let us dance and lose such despair, hmm?”

And Helena does not know this woman’s name, but she bears all the marks of gentry; lace and velvet, smooth milk-white skin , and the scent of flowers in the summertime – and so Helena smiles and Helena bows and this lady offers her hand as invitation.

And so Helena takes this new hand into her own.

/

I try to find you, in my sleep.

In my sleep, I try to find you and you dart away – behind the trees, over stone walls. I try to find you and you slip away, sand underneath my feet…

I try to find you, in my sleep, and so I never rest.

They say I am wounded. They say I am going into a fever. They say I am going to die, side crudely stitched up and infected. They wipe my face down with rags and they pour water into my mouth. They lay my sword into my arms, as though it were you, and so I hold on tightly.

I hold on.

I hold on to you.

/

_But all dreams must end._

/

Myka’s hands are hard and unyielding, cradling Helena’s face with such force as to be painful. And far more dangerous than the anger present is the possessiveness that lingers there, as though they are no longer separate from each other but now live as one.

And if Myka’s heart has been battered, then so shall Helena feel the pain.

“Promise me… You must promise me…”

And the kiss meant nothing; it barely caused Helena’s drunken eyes to open. But the arrow was set free and found its mark so very easily and from unknown arms Helena was pulled – stumbling and bleary – as Myka’s tight grip around her wrist tugged her ever forward.

“…You must promise to be mine and mine alone… For I will never share you with another…”

And Myka’s mouth descends, taking what has always belonged to her, and Helena’s head falls back with a bone-deep groan as teeth nip along her flesh, as dark petals unfurl – sucked into being – all along Helena’s neck.

“…Tell me that you are mine, Helena… Tell me, tell me, tell me…”

And so Helena says this truth over and over, with hands fumbling over such pretty trappings – ties and hooks and loops and strings – and with words like pleasure-filled gasps, with devotion coming down in desperate whispers and in slow thrusts…

“…Say it…”

/

Where are you now? Are you beside me still, crying over my motionless hand? Did we really love so strongly – as though the curve of the earth could be bent to fit our will? Or did we only delude ourselves too well – lost, as always, in our longing but kept so far from truly having…?

Where are you now, my beloved?

…And how will I ever find you again?

/

“I shall never belong to another, Myka… Never.”

/

_…If I look up at you now, will your face resemble the sun? …Or will your features fade like dying stars, leaving me forever cold? If I look up at you now, will you see me – buried under mud, bleeding in the darkness… will you see your soldier now?_

/

(end)


	41. 'wishful thinking'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S2 AU-ish

/

The details of this moment are irrelevant.

How does H.G. Wells keep managing to sneak in and then sneak back out of their lives? Why doesn’t Myka Bering just turn the damn woman over to the Regents like she is supposed to?

And, really, who gave this woman the right to look so fucking good anyway?

But these are questions that do not seem to mean much to Myka right now; right now, with the lights off in her bedroom and H.G. Wells pinned underneath her.  
Yeah, right now isn’t the time to ponder those other things - those very, very important things - because every time that H.G. starts to struggle (hips try to buck, arms begin to twist), Myka just increases the strength of her hold; fingers tighter around the wrists and more pressure applied to either side of H.G.’s upper thighs.

And there is this feeling rolling around in Myka’s veins, like her blood is on fire, and it’s been a while since she has felt like this. Truthfully, though, Myka isn’t sure if she’s ever felt like this - and yet she still knows exactly what this sensation is.

Of course, if Myka were at all confused about what her body is trying to tell her, then the steady pulsing of desire - teasing and taunting her clit with every subtle thrust masked as sure restraint - would more than spell it out to her. 

It is enough to make her gasp out loud, this wonderful and really, really wrong hungry ‘thing’ inside of her… and so her fingers clampdown even harder on H.G.’s wrists and the woman hisses - in pain, probably - but Myka can actually feel that sound all the way down her spine and her own arms tremble - for just a second - out of pure lust.

“Agent Bering—”  
“No.”  
“…Excuse me…?”

And Myka leans down until the upper part of her body presses down deliciously against H.G. Wells - the heat of the woman’s stomach felt even through clothing, the curvature of her breasts so very close - and then Myka, quite literally, steals a kiss from her captive; lips surprised and possibly parting in dispute, only to be shoved open roughly… mouth hot and perfect for plundering… and Myka, despite the desperate need to maintain complete control, moans at the taste of this woman she is most definitely not supposed to want.

H.G. is out of breath once this kiss draws to an end, dark eyes blinking with a mixture of shock and indignation and - yes - no small amount of arousal as well.

“What… what is going on…” H.G. begins to ask but Myka has moved on from the woman’s mouth to the woman’s neck; smooth white column of flesh that Myka intends to feast upon - with teeth finding purchase on soft skin and then tugging until H.G.’s body responds of its own eager volition… head pushing into the floor and back beginning to arch…

“Don’t worry, H.G….,” Myka breathes out as she releases the woman’s neck and then proceeds to drag the tip of her tongue up to the woman’s ear, “…just do whatever I say and you can walk out of here as easily as you walked in…”

/

And, really, H.G. Wells knows that she would be quite foolish to refuse such an offer.

/

(end)


	42. 'the detective'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU; sequel to 'the badge'

~ ~

They get her good and drunk.

They get her good and drunk, talking about the days when they were all rookies – wet behind the ears and fingers way too itchy to get on the trigger, fresh faces full of shit-eating grins – and they get her good and drunk, talking about lives lost along the way, too – Perry and Michaels, Johnston and countless others… some of them good men, some of them brothers or sisters, some of them didn’t wear the uniform at all, some of them were just caught in the crossfire…

…and so, by the time the taxi-cab rolls up to the curb, Myka Bering is fucking plastered.

And they shuffle her into the back seat with hearty slaps to her inebriated shoulders and with a lot of well-meaning comments buzzing around her ears.

“You’ll be back soon, don’t you worry.”  
“Enjoy the damn break, Bering! Some of us aren’t as lucky.”  
“Yeah, things just need to cool down… This suspension won’t last long…”

Myka doesn’t reply, though; she just slumps down against the cracked leather of this seat and mumbles out an address to the driver. And she doesn’t bother to look back at the boys as they stand around bumming cigarettes from one another and as they tell each other the truth that every single one of them already knows.

Detective Myka Bering won’t be missed by everyone at the precinct.

And the higher-ups – the cops who think she will just roll over, that she will turn a blind eye to the rules being broken for selfish gain – are hoping that this ‘time-off’ will serve as a warning; a significant slap to the hand that just might make her come to heel…

…If she wants to stay a detective, if she wants to continue to wear the badge on her chest, then she’ll just have to play ball – that’s what the higher-ups think.

“They are in for a fucking surprise then.” Myka mumbles to herself as the city streets blur past this grimy window, trails of red and neon-white sliding over her bleary stare and she must have been near to sleeping with her eyes open when the cab skids to a jerky stop at her final destination for the night.

And she braces her hands on the railing as she goes up those three flights of stairs, forgoing the elevator in an effort to maybe sober up somewhat. And she means to knock on the door but, instead, Myka’s forehead beats her fist to the punch and hits the cool surface with a solid ‘thunk.’

Must have been loud enough, though, because the door opens and Myka’s whole body stumbles forward.

And Helena Wells is looking at her – part concern, part irritation, arms crossed over a threadbare tee-shirt that barely reaches the top of the woman’s thighs…

Myka’s gaze is forcibly lifted up from its very indecent intentions when Helena grips her chin and continues to hold Myka’s wobbling head in place.

“What are you doing here, Myka?”  
“I didn’t want to go home…”  
“So you thought you’d come here then?”

Myka doesn’t reply with words; she just nods her head and attempts to smile in her usual way when faced with an attractive woman… and Myka really doesn’t want to go home tonight, where she will end up either drinking more or falling asleep on the floor – or both.

Either way, Myka will have a sore head – but she’d rather feel really good before feeling really bad again.

“You can’t stay here, Myka. It’ll just muddy the waters between us.”  
“What water? What mud? Everything is okay on my end, Helena…”  
“Well, then it is not okay on my end.”  
“…Helena…”

The woman holds out her hand, doing her best to keep Myka’s swaying form at the doorway and to allow no further entrance on Myka’s part.

“I’ll call you a cab.”  
“Please don’t.”  
“You’d rather walk, Detective Bering?”

Helena’s lips, as if they cannot help themselves, curve upwards into a smirk and that smirk – always a little bit cold, always a little bit sharp – can cause Myka Bering to groan out loud on the best of days. Tonight, though, this weakness comes out like a soft whimper and Myka leans forward until Helena’s hand comes into contact with the center of Myka’s chest.

“I’d rather stay here with you.”

And Myka reaches up before Helena can pull away, sliding fingers over the length of Helena’s arm until just above the elbow and the hand on Myka’s chest must drop down as Myka tugs the woman closer. She watches Helena’s lips part instinctually and that gaze drifts to Myka’s mouth as if unable to halt the action.

“You… you are drunk.” Helena says quietly but the words slip over Myka’s skin like a caress and Myka tilts her head until she can press a kiss to the very edge of Helena’s jawline.  
“Yes…,” Myka replies in a tone just as soft, “…I am.”

But her kisses have found Helena’s cheek and now her kisses have found Helena’s mouth and the warmth found there – tongue so sweet and so talented – is the only balm better than drink for what ails Myka tonight.

And with Helena’s muffled moan as a response, Myka knows she won’t be going home now.

/

Someone is shaking her and it feels like her body has been dropped from a fifty-story building only to bounce with increasing force upon a trampoline far below – and she just keeps landing on her head each and every damn time.

“…Jesus Christ…” Myka manages to croak, throat rebelling against words, and then she ends up coughing into a pillow. This jars her skull and that’s when the real pain starts.

“Oh fuck me running…” Myka says as she clutches her head with fumbling hands, trying desperately to burrow into this bed and hide away from the sunlight that is creeping further and further into her red-rimmed field of vision.

“Time to get up, Detective Bering.”

A voice pierces this cocoon of cotton and Myka might not recall every single detail of the night before but she knows that voice and so she knows exactly where she is – and she is also pretty damn certain about what happened once she got here, too.

“I have exactly twenty minutes to get to the hospital and you cannot stay here.”

Myka forces her body upwards, choking down the rolling urge to vomit, and she watches through squinting eyes as Helena slowly averts her no-nonsense stare away from Myka’s naked upper body.

“You can go on. I’ll lock up… I just need a few more minutes—“  
“No.”  
“I’ll buy you breakfast tomorrow if you’ll just—“  
“No, Myka.”  
“Fuck, Helena…Was I that bad last night or something?”

The only answer Myka gets, though, is a piece of clothing hitting her in the face and the sound of Helena’s shoes walking out of the bedroom.

“Well this day is staring out promising…” Myka mutters aloud, struggling to get dressed again and then struggling to walk when her head wants to fall off of her neck.  
The other woman is standing close to the apartment door as Myka quietly approaches, brown eyes fixed on some unknown point, and Myka almost wishes she had time to explain what is going on – the shooting, the suspension, the crooked ways and the dirty dealings that she is trying so hard to fight.

Myka almost wishes she knew how let someone into this mess of a life she leads.

But she has found it best to keep everyone at arm’s length; to keep the lovers separate from the loved ones and to never call the same woman twice in a row. Of course, mistakes happen and Myka certainly didn’t intend to seek Helena out last night. Her only goal was to drink with her fellow officers and then to formulate a plan on how to catch the bastards that are trying to run her out on a rail.

The more she drank, though, the more her thoughts became less vengeful and decidedly dour and instead of finding some random person to lighten the load with for an evening… Myka found herself at Helena’s door, drunk and – admittedly – desperate for familiar comfort.

But that offer of ‘comfort’ was months ago and Myka did her usual cut-and-run act back then – so, really, Helena’s door is a closed one… no matter what happened several hours ago.

And even if Myka is incapable of actual commitment to one person, she can at least learn how to fucking apologize for showing up – uninvited – into someone else’s world in the middle of the night.

“I won’t do this again, okay? I’m sorry… I just, uh… Yesterday was a shitty day and you are the complete opposite of shit, Helena. So I came here and I’m sorry.”

But Helena only sighs as she unlocks the door, swinging it open with a silent flourish and pushing Myka – not too gently – past the threshold and into the hall.

And Helena doesn’t say a single word as she walks by Myka and down the stairs and out of sight.

/

Never trust a source - even a nice one, even an attractive one, even if it is your own mother.

Because sources are notorious for telling the ‘truth’ to anyone who will listen; palms always open for whatever treat you can give them – a pocketful of money or a blind eye to petty deals around the block…

Myka learned that lesson the hard way back in her first year, walking the beat in her shiny black leather shoes and with ‘sucker’ stamped across her forehead. Every two-bit pusher claimed that he ‘wasn’t the one, but I can tell you who is, yeah?’

And Myka fell for it – hook, line, and sinker.

Last guy who tried that with her, though, ended up being pistol-whipped and soon word spread all over the downtown that Officer Bering was one ‘fucked-up chick.’ And those loose lips were told to keep quiet – if they wanted to stay on the good side of the criminals who owned the streets. But just like a junkie who will suck off anyone for a fix, a savvy source knows how to keep both sides of their bread buttered – and not land their ass in a permanent sling.

Myka just happens to know one of these opportunistic souls and she decides that today – her first full day of actual suspension from the force – is a good day for a little visit.

She parks about a block and a half away from Lexington Avenue, opting for a leisurely stroll to the Silver Dollar instead of announcing her arrival with her pretty car parked out of front. Still, the doorbell above her head jingles and about three or four pairs of eyes swivel her way – and one pair of baby-blues belongs to Donnie Pearson.

The man, as usual, doesn’t look too pleased to see her.

“Fuck, Bering, and here I thought that I wouldn’t have to worry about seeing you around for a while…”

She ignores his comment, moving to sit beside him at the bar and tapping the counter while giving a quick side-nod in Donnie’s direction.

“Double up this man’s drink, Charlie. Wouldn’t want him to dry out anytime soon.” Myka says with a grin and the bartender pulls a bottle down from the shelf with an annoyed sigh.

“I’ve told you before… My name isn’t Charlie.” The bartender replies as he tops off Donnie’s tumbler with more honey-colored liquor.  
“And I’ve told you I don’t care.”

Myka is still grinning as she says this, of course, but the tone of her voice leaves little room for further complaint and ‘Charlie’ just drifts away to the other end of the bar.

“So… to what do I owe this displeasure, Officer Bering…?”  
“That’s Detective, remember?”  
“Seems like none of us can recall names today then…”

Myka leans in close, bringing her hand up to grip – loosely but still very much ‘present’ – the back of the man’s neck. And she feels his body stiffen ever so slightly in response.

“I bet you can recall a few names if I ask nicely, right?” Myka says quietly into the man’s ear, fingers flexing minutely – turning that loose hold into something more threatening – before she lets go and returns to sitting normally upon her barstool.

“Uh, yeah… I guess I can recall a few…” Donnie says after clearing his throat and then he knocks back the rest of his drink, wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “Let’s, uh, go out back and talk, yeah?”

/

You learn to not be surprised by anything. You become desensitized – that’s what the headshrinkers would call it – to the steady stream of bull-shit that runs through your life; the hookers with the busted lips and the black-eyes, the dirt-stained kids sleeping on the streets, the mothers who beat on your chest when you tell them that so-n-so isn’t coming home tonight…

You learn to box it up and lock it away. You learn to not care as much as you may want to.

Myka didn’t need the police force to teach her how to keep the bad stuff at bay, though. She perfected that ability a long, long time ago – thanks to a childhood under the guidance of Warren Bering – and so it is with cool efficiency that she writes down the names that Donnie Pearson gives her, never revealing a single glimpse of the anger rising up in her body or the distinct sensation of disappointment that settles in her gut.

And then Myka suggests that Donnie take a long vacation to anywhere, shoving a hefty stack of bills into his greedy hands.

“City won’t be safe from you now, eh?” The man asks with a huff of laughter, already counting through the bills from Myka’s own wallet and tallying up the total.

But when he looks up from those Benjamin Franklin faces, Myka is already walking away.

/

Sometimes the blow comes from exactly where you expect it to. But sometimes that blow comes out of nowhere and it can knock you down to your knees.  
Myka doesn’t like the look of world from down on the ground, though.

And it’s about time to turn the tables on these people – the men with the money and the men with the drugs, the men with the power and the men who claim to be her ‘superiors’ – and make them all fucking kneel.

/

She trails and she tracks, keeping tabs on each name on her list – one by one, night after night – until she can make her first move. And, all things considered, it goes pretty well.

She manages to cause a scene. She manages to get a few answers out of bleeding mouths. She manages to leave this rundown building alive – which is saying something after that one guy slammed into her and the air suddenly fled from her lungs, her body crashing down onto hard concrete and her gun skidding across the floor and into the shadows…

…For a second there, Myka had to question her own intelligence with just waltzing into one of the Columbian hang-outs with nothing but her Beretta and a whole lot of attitude. But if they were smart, they wouldn’t have posted some no-nothing eighteen year old idiot at the door, so Myka put the odds in her favor.

Of course, you can’t always count on odds; they are just numbers after all.

Still, a well-placed kick can break a man’s nose and while the others tried to gather up their merchandise and make a run for it, Myka scrambled along the floor to find her gun. And when she turned back around, she didn’t bother waiting to fire off a few rounds.

And these bullets were not meant for show.

One guy took it to the shoulder, crying out and dropping a suitcase full of what looked like – from her vantage point – to be some market-ready blow. Another guy was hit low in the back, toppling forward with a scream as Myka stood up and started sprinting after the few who were left; each of them yelling at one another as they barreled towards some other exit.

By the time it is all said and done, only two of the men got away and Myka knows that news of this little throw-down will spread like wildfire. It’ll hit the streets, it’ll work its way into the Silver Dollar, it’ll travel uptown and roll like a coin across the floor of the police department.

And now, thanks to Donnie and thanks to Mr. Busted Nose who didn’t want his brains blown out, Myka knows just who will be picking up that dime.

/

“Is this to become a regular occurrence, Detective Bering? Because I could lodge a complaint against you… This borders on harassment, doesn’t it?”

Myka hold her hands up in acquiescence but Helena’s expression does not lessen in its extreme annoyance.

“I’m not here for anything other than medical advice, okay? I promise.”  
“And that is what the hospital is for, Detective… They are open all night. I am not.”  
“Look… I can’t go there. I need to keep a low profile for a few days and the hospital is not low profile…”

Helena is watching her closely now, stare very aloof and calculating, and Myka determines that it is time to pull out the big guns – and she hopes to god that Helena doesn’t want to know if what is about to be said is true or not.

Because even Myka isn’t fully sure about that one.

“…and I trust you, Helena.”

And the other woman seems to grit her teeth in frustration – frustration at being subtly dismantled against her will – and Myka is wise enough to remain quiet while Helena deliberates for a few seconds more before opening her door with a roll of the eyes.

“Tell me what is going on and I will see if I can help… and then you leave, all-right?”

Myka nods her head in agreement.

“Then I leave.”

/

“I don’t think anything is broken, though that is hard to tell just by poking and prodding at you… But I can assure you that you won’t be feeling very good for the next 24 hours and that will be before the bruising fully shows up across your abdomen. Can you get your hands on some ice packs?”

Myka nods her head ‘yes.’

“Right. Then ice this area, for about twenty minutes or so, every hour… at least through the rest of the night. And I think I’ve got some arnica gel around here somewhere… You can take it with you, just follow the instructions on the back. Beyond that, rest – but don’t stop moving – and take pain reliever… okay?”

Myka offers up a little mock salute and this causes Helena to grin just a tiny bit in return.

“Here, put your shirt back on and…,” And there’s the glance to Myka’s hands, still ruddy with someone else’s blood, and Helena quietly clears her throat before continuing, “…go get cleaned up if you’d like.”

Myka just nods her head again, saying a quiet ‘thanks’ as she walks stiffly to Helena’s bathroom. And getting her shirt back on proves to be a very painful experience. Myka almost calls out for help but thinks better of that idea after the stern warning Helena tossed around about ‘complaints’ and ‘harassment.’

So Myka just pushes past the stabs of agony and only takes a moment to gently wrap an arm around her midsection, trying to calm her breathing once more, before she steps back out into the rest of Helena’s apartment. And waiting for Myka on the kitchen counter is a glass filled up with something that looks suspiciously like whisky and Helena nods towards the glass with a smile.

“Normally, I do not advocate mixing substances… but a bit of the hair of the dog might do you some good tonight, Detective.”

Myka’s eyebrows lift at this extra mile of kindness that Helena is giving her.

“You’re being awfully nice to me, you know…”  
“Occupational hazard, I suppose.”

And now Myka is smiling at Helena as she picks up the glass; she takes a sip and enjoys the way it burns a path down her throat – just enough to wake her up but still just enough to take the edge off of a very eventful evening.

“Going to join me?” Myka asks and Helena slowly shakes her and says ‘no.’

And so Myka finishes off her drink, sitting the glass back down softly. And she walks towards Helena, causing the other woman to straighten up from where she was leaning casually against the kitchen counter – gaze somewhat wary at Myka’s silent advance. And Myka does her best to not pay attention to the way Helena’s breath seems to catch when her hand slides confidently over Helena’s cheek…

…and Myka swallows down something – something really unfortunate and something far too good – right before she replaces her hand with her lips, pressing a firm kiss to smooth skin.

And then Myka steps back again, putting the necessary distance between them.

“Thank you for your help tonight… I owe you, Helena.”  
“It was… I, uh…”

Myka can’t help herself; she chuckles at Helena’s sudden inability to speak. And instead of being ticked off at that reaction, Helena sort of laughs herself and runs her fingers through strands of her jet-black hair.

“Right, so that’s my cue to leave, I think…” Myka says with a grin before making her way to the door. But just as the last lock is opened, there is the light pressure of hand on her shoulder and Myka looks over to find Helena standing close.

“You don’t owe me anything, Myka… Except maybe to take better care of yourself in future. Can you promise me that?”

And Myka reaches up, taking Helena’s hand into her own and places a quick kiss to the knuckles before turning the door-knob and pushing the door the rest of the way open with the toe of her boot.

“That’s one promise I doubt I can keep, Helena…”

Myka turns around, though, once she is out in the hallway and winks at the other woman.

“…but believe me when I say I’ll try.”

/

“I don’t know why the hell I’m helping you. They could have my badge for this and I worked damn hard to get it. I could get arrested myself!”

There are older officers on the force that she could have approached; men and women with better poker faces, who have seen too much to get this worked up over some photocopied files. But most of those older officers don’t want to cause any trouble; they’re just waiting for retirement time to roll around and they don’t give a shit about corruption.

They’ve got a gold watch to look forward to and endless memories to trade over beers.

Younger officers, though sometimes prone to hysterics, are easier to wind up about justice and fighting the good fight just because you should – and so Myka Bering turned her attention to Officer Steve Jinks. He was there, after all, the night she shot a drug dealer square in the back; he put her wounded arm in a sling and then drove her to the ER. He even waited around that night – at least until she told him to get lost… It wasn’t to be rude or anything, but that was also the night she met Dr. Wells and she didn’t need Opie from Mayberry lurking around while she made small talk with a good-looking woman.

But Myka always remembers when somebody helps her out and so, out of that short list of names, Steve Jinks stood out from the rest.

Young, idealistic, still a little naïve – as all newbies are – but even now, with him talking all in a panic, she can look into his eyes and see that he is actually a good guy; the kind of guy that would want to truth to be known.

“You won’t get arrested, Jinks, so just, you know, relax.”  
“I guess I could just get suspended like you then, not that that would be any better…”  
“Yeah… that’s still a sore topic, okay?”

Myka’s glare is known to freeze water – and that’s when it’s already frozen. Steve’s eyes widen and she lets him hang there for a moment before smiling at him congenially, patting him on the shoulder to make sure he keeps breathing properly.

“It’s just paper, Jinks. Just paper and information. No one’s going to know that you got a hold of this stuff for me… And once I’ve cleaned house, it won’t even matter that you assisted me in an investigation.”  
“But this isn’t a sanctioned investi—“  
“It’s like being undercover, all-right? Jesus, you need to calm the fuck down…”

Steve Jinks decides to go all quiet then and, really, Myka is just fine with that for now.

Because she’s got plans to make and then to carry out.

She rented out a room in the building across from her place, watching her own dark windows like some kind of peeping-tom. And there have already been a couple of visits as far as she can tell, late at night and with flashlights; there have been cars slowing down out on the street and men standing in the shadows to wait for her return. The Columbians will be seeking revenge and the bastards on the force will be keeping all of this on the down-low – for now – until she turns up in a bodybag.  
But with knowledge comes power, right?

And, as of today, Myka is ready to turn that knowledge into one hell of fist.

/

It takes making some guarantees – and that’s the kind of thing that no one should ever place on the bargaining table… But to get what she wants, Myka Bering is willing to do just about anything.

Steve Jinks doesn’t want to lose a career before it has even really begun. And she can make promises, she can swear up and down that he is doing the right thing… 

But there’s as much chance of him being stripped of his badge as there is of him being lauded as a hero.

And yet, Myka tells him what she is going to do and how she is going to do it – and the man decides to go along with it, even though he looks like he is about to pass out. Myka almost asks him why he is putting his neck on the line but, in the end, Steve Jinks volunteers the reason.

“Look, Bering… I’ve got a knack for knowing when people are lying to me… and even though I think this is nuts, I know you are telling me the truth… I just know you are…”

And that’s good enough for Myka.

She tells him where to place the bug – which just happens to be on the underside of the desk in the Captain’s office – and then she sets up an illegal tap on the phone for that office, thanks to some equipment that she ‘liberated’ with the help of Officer Jinks during an unexpected visit to the station at six a.m.

With Barton Davis at the desk, though, Myka is pretty sure she could have unlocked all the cells, walked each scumbag out the door personally and gotten away with it.  
By the time they are done, it is nine in the morning and she sends Steve Jinks on his way, telling him to get some rest and thanking him – in her own non-demonstrative way. And then she crashes onto a piece of shit mattress on a bare wooden floor, halfway to dreamland before her eyes even close.

/

It takes two weeks – two long fucking weeks – but what she ends up with is more than enough to cause some damage.

And she walks into the precinct on a sunny Monday morning, head held high as some of the officers greet her and as others stare at her in silence. And she strides right into the Captain’s office, taking a great amount of pleasure at the brief look of worry that flashes through the man’s eyes before he can stomp that reaction down.

“Detective Bering, have you forgotten that you are on leave right now?”

Myka just turns around and pushes the door shut, locking it while she is there. And his face goes hard, as though he is about to lecture her and then throw her out on her ear; as if she is supposed to fear him like all his little lackeys do.

But of all the things that Myka Bering does not do – fear is on the top of that list.

“I think it’s time that you and I have a little chat, don’t you, Captain? Because I’ve been listening to some of your calls lately… and no, not the 900-number ones… but the ones you make to your friends downtown… Your friends like Guillermo García or Juan Carlos…”  
“You better get the hell out of here right now, Bering, or so help me god—“  
“Oh, I’m sorry… When I said that we should have a chat, what I really meant was that you are going to listen and I am the one who is going to be doing most of the talking. Now, if you can’t follow the rules.. which, believe me, I get that that is really fucking hard for you to do… but if you can’t, then I am going to straight to the papers with what I have and you won’t even get a chance to convince me to do otherwise.”

The man stares at her, mouth sort of opening and closing for a few seconds, and she just smiles at him coolly before settling down into one of the chairs and propping her feet up on his desk.

“So… let’s chat, shall we?”

/

In the end, though, Myka Bering did exactly as she set out to do.

And by the time the newspapers rolled out on Friday, the NYPD was embroiled in the biggest shit-storm since god-knows-when. And those dealers who had paid their way into safety were finally brought in, one by one. And those officers who were more than happy to grease a palm here and there for their own gain, to stay quiet while criminals boasted – they became black-and-white pictures on the front page.

It’s the kind of scandal that New York City loves – corruption and greed, distrust and drugs; it’s the kind of upheaval that the old-timers on the force sigh at and the young guns feel disgusted about.

It is good versus bad, right versus wrong – just like it has always been.

/

And for the first time in a long while, Myka Bering feels like a fucking cop – the kind she wanted to be when growing up - when she clips that badge back onto her hip.

/

“According to the newspaper, you’ve been busy.”  
“Well, you can’t believe everything you read, you know…”  
“I think I like the ‘One Woman Army’ headline the best, though…”

Myka pulls the paper from Helena’s hold, dropping it to the floor as she steps inside the woman’s apartment.

“Did I say you could come in, Detective?”  
“No you did not.”  
“So… this is breaking-and-entering… which is against the law…”  
“Well, technically, you are correct, yes…”

Myka begins to walk closer, in a manner that is anything but innocent, and Helena matches this gradual pace – only she’s walking backwards instead of towards Myka.

“…Are we really going to play this game again, Myka?”  
“This isn’t a game at all, Helena.”  
“Isn’t it? You have your fun and then you disappear… and then you come back whenever you are bored or drunk…”  
“Or in need of free medical advice.”  
“Right. There’s that, too.”

Helena’s slightly annoyed smirk only causes Myka to happily grin and, once Helena’s back bumps into the wall, that grin of Myka’s turns a bit more wolfish.

“Myka… the problem here is that I actually care about you…”

But Helena’s comment, all soft and vulnerable, takes the steam out of Myka’s predatory stance and, instead, leaves her feeling rather genuine and surprisingly tender. And so she reaches out slowly until she has snaked both of her arms around Helena’s waist and she pulls the woman into this embrace, leaning in closer and closer, until her lips are just a breath away from Helena’s.

“…And my problem is that I actually care about you, too… but can we please talk about this tomorrow? Because if I don’t kiss you really, really soon, Helena, then I don’t know what—“

Myka doesn’t have an opportunity to finish that sentence, though, because Helena’s lips are on hers and they are kissing like there is no fucking tomorrow. And Helena’s hands have worked their way underneath Myka’s shirt, with nails dragging over the skin and causing Myka to almost growl in appreciation.

They break away from each other for a moment, both of them breathing heavily and leaning against one another.

“You know what, Detective?”  
“…What?”  
“You talk too much.”  
“I know… it’s a bad habit…”

Helena’s only reply is to return her tongue to the inside of Myka’s mouth and so the conversation ends for the rest of the night.

/

Of course, nothing in this world is perfect – not the precinct, not the cops, and definitely not this damn city she calls home…

But as of right now, with Helena’s bare leg resting between her own, the world is looking pretty good.

And so Myka Bering wouldn’t have the world any other way.

/

(end)


	43. 'all the saints in the shadows'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU

~ ~

“Thirty-five.”  
“Wait… that can’t be right…”  
“Excuse me? I know how to tally up a list of souls… I’ve lost my morals, not my ability to add numbers.”  
“I don’t care how well you can count without using your fingers and toes… Your total is still wrong.”

There are two women sitting on a mountaintop, far above the trials and tribulations of the human-beings below, at the end of another long day in the never-ending battle between ‘good’ and ‘evil.’

And, as is usually the case, they are splitting hairs over who got what soul onto their list.

“How is my total wrong? Who am I putting on here who isn’t supposed to be, hmm?”  
“Number twenty-two.”

One of the women – the one with curls the color of chestnut, the one with full lips so red, the one wearing a dress of black – looks down at her leather-bound notebook, tapping the tip of her golden pen onto the page lightly as she does so.

“Oh c’mon… Marcus Diamond is so on my list…”  
“He died a hero!”  
“Yeah but he wasn’t always so heroic now was he?”

The woman in the black dress smiles knowingly at the other woman – the one with a cascade of raven hair, the one with skin of milk-white, the one in a dress of periwinkle blue – and the other woman rolls her eyes in irritation.

Neither one of them wants to be here.

Neither one of them want to be sitting on a mountaintop with each other, going over statistics like the business-people do on Earth. Neither one of them believes that this forced interaction keeps anyone more honest – or more dishonest – but even angels and demons have bosses.

And those bosses must be obeyed.

“And what about your list? I see a few discrepancies that you are neglecting to address…”  
“Unlike you, I do not think one bad act means a soul is going down the drain, so to speak.”  
“So… is that why you think you get to have number sixteen?”  
“I got her in the end, didn’t I?”  
“You fought dirty.”  
“So did you.”

Each angel and each demon is paired off at the end of a soul-collecting year. And for some reason that is unfathomable to either of them, Helena and Myka always end up paired together. They always end up on this mountaintop; they always end up bickering with one another over so-n-so’s last breath or last wish or last thought.

They always end up annoyed with each other, too.

Myka understands that an angel has to be a little sanctimonious; they are the ‘light to the dark’, blah blah blah… But Helena just takes the cake in that department, all smirking smiles and haughty looks; always right even when she is wrong…

…and Helena understands that a demon has to be a little devious; they are ‘the damned ones’, after all and so on and so forth… But Myka just goes too far every single time, all underhanded games and wicked grins; always right even when she is wrong…

“So, are we done here?”  
“You know perfectly well that they send for us.”  
“I should just go. Break the rules and piss off God.”  
“Well, it would be in your nature to do so…”

They smile falsely at one another and then look away from one another. Myka looks at the ground far, far below and Helena stares up at clouds so very close. And this silence lasts for what seems like an eternity. Not that either one of them have a real concept of eternity anymore; one kind of loses sight of the human notion of time when living between the worlds.

An hour is a second, a second is a lifetime – there are no clocks in heaven or in hell.

But just like this bizarre mock-up of bipartisan ‘politics’ that they are both having to endure, Helena and Myka know that when they have to sit on this mountaintop it means that a year on Earth has come to a close. And so they are made aware of that which they left behind so very, very long ago - a tangible way of living, with bills and television shows and partners that snore all night and vacations to tourists’ traps and the slow decline of health.

Neither one of them misses Earth.

Maybe they did, at one point, but soon those memories of rock and wood and dirt faded away; soon that life – with its ups and downs, with its successes and its failures – drifted off and disappeared and was forgotten.

If you were to ask Helena, she wouldn’t be able to tell you where she was once born.  
If you were to ask Myka, she wouldn’t be able to tell you the name of that father or that mother.

And Myka sighs, which is the first sound either one of them has made in quite some time now, and Helena automatically looks over at the other woman. And instead of looking away quickly, like she normally might, Helena sort of studies the other woman… and for just a moment, as the sun begins to quietly descend within the sky, Myka is illuminated by the soft rays of yellow and orange light and Helena’s eyes grow wide with something akin to…

Well, she’d rather not admit to such a thing and so she clears her throat as a distraction and quickly looks back to the sky above; forcing away this sudden and strange sensation that seems to be pooling at the bottom of her gut.

And Myka looks over with a bored expression upon her face when Helena clears her throat, perfectly ready to listen to some diatribe or another from Miss Holier-Than-Thou. But the other woman isn’t saying a damn thing and she is just staring up at the sky like it is the most interesting sight in the universe and instead of looking away like she maybe should, Myka finds herself staring at the other woman… and for just a moment, as the sun slips towards the horizon, Helena is bathed in the burning red of a star about to sleep and Myka feels her pulse start to race in a manner that is a lot like…

Well, she definitely cannot afford to indulge in those kinds of ideas and so she shakes her head as if clearing away cobwebs; trying to shake away this sudden and strange sensation that seems to be fluttering up and down her spine.

“I wish they would hurry.”  
“So do I.”  
“I mean… we were able to finish in a timely fashion. Everyone else should be able to do the same.”  
“Hey, I agree with you.”

And they look at each other this time with smiles that are not so much false as awkward and then they look away again.

And neither one of them are willing to state the obvious – that they verbally spar with one another as a way of dealing with tension. True, some of that tension is because of being on opposing sides, of the fact that they both must chase down the same souls and yet one of them must ‘lose.’

But some of that tension, as crazy and as impossible as it may sound to the higher-ups, is because of attraction.

Myka would like to see Helena do something wrong.  
Helena would like to see Myka do something noble.  
Myka would like to taste this tongue that speaks so much goodness.  
Helena would like to kiss these lips that part with so much sin.

“Helena…”

And Helena blinks at the sound of her name coming from Myka’s mouth, the slow way the syllables roll and then crash into her ears and if Helena needed to truly breathe at all then she would be struggling for air right about now.

“…Yes?”

And Myka swallows hard, as though her throat were suddenly the deserts of the distant Sahara, at the sound of Helena’s smooth inquiry – all low and unbelievably inviting – and if Myka had a heart that needed to beat then that heart would be pounding right about now.

“Have you ever done anything bad?”

… and there is a pause that lasts a second, an hour, a lifetime…

“Have you ever done anything good?”

…and they both know the answers to these questions and Helena knows that those green eyes are just a rule waiting to be broken and Myka knows that sweet virtue rests upon those bare shoulders… and they are not magnets to be drawn – inevitably – towards one another and they are not made to suffer the desires that plague every mortal… but the sun is going, going, gone and Myka is leaning in and so is Helena and they are kissing each other and… and…

…and it is perfectly inappropriate and devastatingly beautiful.

And God will be disappointed and Satan will be disgusted and Myka will say she was ‘messing with that angel’s head just for the Hell of it’ and Helena will say that she was trying to ‘prove the point that even spawns of the devil deserved a lesson in kindness’ and it’ll just be another moment in a long, long line of moments and God will forgive and Satan will learn to laugh about it…

But Myka and Helena will forever know the truth.

And they’ll pick up where they left off next year.

/

(end)


	44. 'no need to explain'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU-ish but still Warehouse universe

~ ~

The sensation is one of delicious discomfort.

Not that Helena hasn’t been in uncomfortable situations before – tight-spots due to artifacts (that is the light), a hundred years in the bronze due to insanity (that is the dark) – but this situation is somewhere between day and night, shadow and shine, and so she settles into this feeling with a shifting of her hips first and a shuddering inhalation second.

And she wonders – for a moment – just when these boundaries came falling down. Was it while they slept? Was it when they were separated by rage and by death?

Or is it now? Is it only now that the barriers between them have become obsolete – tedious at best, frustrating at the worst – and so they crumble underneath the pressure of Myka’s fingertips…

…Is this how they will find one another in any world?

/

Myka pulls one leg upwards, knee bent like a smooth mountain peak, while her other leg rests easily to the side – foot turned, ankle pressed to the mattress – and it is almost too dark to see everything but Helena can see more than enough.

The rest she can replay due to hands-on experience.

And the flat expanse of Myka’s abdomen is lost in soft, white cotton – three buttons done up, four buttons undone – but Helena is easily distracted by what is not hidden; Myka will make her pay for such eagerness, Helena is sure of that… but, in this minute, such a price seems minor.

And Helena takes a deep breath.

And she swears to god – a god she doesn’t truly believe in (except when Myka’s body is twined around her like ivy, like a golden noose) – that she can smell this desire; off of Myka’s bare skin, held tightly by Helena’s own trembling fist…

“Look me in the eye, Helena.”

And she tears her gaze away from where Myka’s hand makes lazy circles – sticky sweet heaven caught in those grooves – and Myka’s stare is commanding and so Helena obeys.

Because they are tearing down the universe tonight, one supernova at a time, and Helena watches that swirl of green turn to black - (peripherally, though, there is the slip-slip-slipping of a palm over wetness and then fingers dipping in – slowly, so painfully slow – and Myka opens her own legs a bit wider and then those hips cant ever so slightly, asking for more like they always do, and when Myka pulls out with a deep groan… Helena has to grip the arms of this chair she is sitting in so that she does not beg for Myka to continue…) - because Myka knows just how much Helena likes this, wants this, needs this.

And Helena knows how much Myka likes this, wants this, needs this, too.

“You can come closer now.”

Helena pushes herself upwards, but she is shaky on her feet – like a damn newborn – and so she ends up on her knees; she ends up kneeling on the floor at the end of Myka’s bed, like a slave, like a conquest.

And they do not say those words, they do not bandy about such terms… but it is true, in its own way, and they both know it now.

They are master and servant, one and the same, switching roles like silly schoolchildren – never satisfied until they’ve had all of each other… and the tip of Myka’s index finger glides over her clit and Helena’s lips part and then Myka’s touch moves faster and Helena’s knees dig into the wood with such force and it wouldn’t do at all for Helena to come before Myka does – hit the floor harder, dammit, stop this stop yourself – and then Myka plunges in, hips lifting up in supplication and then slamming back down as this rough caress curls, curves, and thrusts…

…and they do not say the words – lover, voyeur, owner, bound, yours, mine – but it is true.

Myka’s other hand travels across the shirt as her head begins to turn into the pillow below, hot palm cupping one breast restlessly – so close and yet so far – until only heavy breathing fills the room and those buttons are pulled open – snap, snap, snap – and Myka is dragging nails over a hardened nipple and Helena is bombarded by earthquakes within her bones.

Fingers pluck and play, as though this body was an instrument, and Helena can see everything now – the slickness of pleasure, the strain of this ache, muscles flexing and releasing (repeat and repeat) – and now Myka has found another speed; lost is the meandering and sought is the shortest point between A and B, between past and present, between destruction and creation…

…and they do not say the words – you killed me, you made me, I love you, I fear you – but it is true.

It is so very, very true.

/

“Oh fuck… fuck, yes…”

Myka’s moans flutter into Helena’s ears and they are the only notes she will ever fully understand.

And so the woman is gone – lips sucked in but with words still falling out, lower body rocking unevenly but determinedly, completely open and unrestrained but by her own hand…

…and Helena leans forward, in timidity and in wonder, until a whisper of a kiss can be left upon the side of Myka’s foot…

…and the cosmos shakes loose and Helena’s whole body jerks to life and she pushes her forehead onto the mattress as she orgasms to the sound of Myka breaking apart oh so beautifully.

/

(end)


	45. 'take what she can get'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post-S3 AU

~ ~

She wants days, she wants months, she wants years – but promises were never made and there is no one to blame, so she’ll take what she can get…

Tonight. This night. This one night.

She’ll take what she can get and learn to weep about it hours later.

/

Artifacts are troublesome.

There is no exact science to how these things work – someone feels too much and then they have turned plain objects into magic tricks; there’s no way to know if the deeds will be reversed or if the impact lasts forever and ever.

She hopes to never forget, but she hopes to never remember.

Emotions are troublesome, too.

/

Helena has the speech of someone still hiding; all the right points of emotion and flirtation in those dark brown eyes, along the curve of that slow smile. And it is just after reinstatement – with Artie storming away, with Pete looking concerned, with their little world changing and expanding – but Myka doesn’t follow that father-figure this time around.

And she shows Helena around, reacquainting the woman with what she may recall and what she may not know (ignore what is to come, know that this changes nothing, nothing will ever be the same again and let it go, just let it go…) and they drift outside – before Leena’s - and they look at the stars.

Helena talks in riddles and Myka chooses to bypass such things tonight… tonight, this night, this one night… and she reaches down to clasp this woman’s hand with her own and there is just a second of shock written upon Helena’s face – and then those features warm, they melt, they fall apart and Myka tells herself that this is real.

This is what lived underneath the hatred and the pain; this is what belonged to Myka once upon a time…

…this is what belongs to Myka right now.

/

“This is only a pause. I know, I know, I know…”

But Helena doesn’t understand the words at all – confusion still so obvious against the woman’s forehead. And yet the sentiment still sinks in and soft hands cradle Myka’s face and their lips are pulled together by forces bigger than the both of them.

And it is leather and it is smoke and it is copper and it is ashes and it is brittle pages and it is endless.

And the air that leaves Helena’s mouth caresses Myka’s face, back pushed onto the cool grass below, and each black strand of hair is lost in the nighttime but it doesn’t matter – Myka knows so many facets from memory – and so her hands run along this body in absolute wonder; hands over ivory skin finally exposed, gooseflesh soothed and sparked by the heat of wet kisses, and Helena’s spine curves like the surface of the Earth and everything… oh everything, just everything… pale and pink, hushed and perfect – all of it upon the tip of Myka’s tongue.

She’ll spell the words, she’ll write a novel – here, on the thigh, Helena trembles and so the story spins out like yards of gold – and she breathes in what has been lost; she drags her tongue upwards and Helena’s body shakes like thunder and she circles and she sucks and she digs her nails into Helena’s willing flesh and this is it…  
It is this night, tonight… this one night…

…and Helena’s fingers tug and then hold onto Myka’s head, bucking and straining against this mouth, and when Helena cries out, Myka imagines that all the days to come (but they’ve already happened, this is a new past, this is a false future, nothing changes, nothing ever changes) will never occur at all and they’ll have days, they’ll have months, they’ll have years.

Jeans hooked loosely around the ankles and chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, Helena chuckles into the chilly South Dakota air and uses boneless arms to beckon Myka closer and they kiss and they kiss and they kiss and Myka rolls over only to find Helena on top of her – grinning and teasing and with cheeks lust-blushed in the moonlight.

“I see the world in your eyes, Myka Bering.”

And she doesn’t correct, she doesn’t fall silent and grow weary with remorse; she doesn’t indulge in such things because this is just a night and Myka Bering will take what she can get.

Helena kisses her until she can no longer see – gone are the heavens, gone is the ground – and Helena delves inside of her, deeper and deeper, until every sound that Myka utters is one of exquisite pleasure and Myka wants to keep this moment – fold it and tuck it away, stick it in a damn locket and wear it around her neck – but nothing ever changes, does it?

The orgasm arrives with the dawn and…

/

…Myka curls in on herself, tight and tormented on this bed, tears falling before she even fully wakes up and the artifact falls from her hands and she’ll take what she can get because she will never, ever get what she wants.

/

(end)


	46. 'tightlacing'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written by request; AU-ish, post-S4 happy world

~ ~

In her time, there was nothing better than taking the blasted thing off.

It was just another extension of male restriction, another manner in which women were supposed to conform – a cinch here and a tug there in order to look pleasing to the opposite sex; in order to seem just like every other woman in every single way.

Helena rarely wore one, choosing to keep such displays for only the most crucial occasions – another luncheon where she played the ‘naughty’ sister to her literati brother – and spending the rest of her days in attire more befitting of the life she desired.

However, there were moments – too far and too few for her liking – where Helena could fathom the aesthetic appeal of such an item; not on herself, no… but on other women, women who were already shattering rules simply by the virtue of their ‘forbidden’ longings…

…Yes, corsets on that kind of woman…

Helena could definitely see the positive side to such a garment when held up to that kind of light.

And the pleasure in looking – at where milk-white skin is made flush, at where satin laces crisscross and leave a mark – was only matched by the pleasure of removing; slowly and so deliberately, catching each newly released breath upon the tongue…

…Oh yes, there was an upside to such gorgeous restraint after all…

/

It was mentioned in passing, a random thought that fluttered past her teeth and out of her lips – a remembrance, a fond smile, and then a brief explanation – and Myka didn’t even let on that she had heard a single word Helena had said; eyes on a file or two, scanning for information with a brain built better than any computer, and Helena went back to sipping her tea.

Two weeks later, though, and the premeditated gleam in those green eyes alerts Helena to the fact that Myka Bering hears everything that comes out of Helena’s wandering little mouth.

And it is hard for Helena to breathe, which is saying something since she is not the one currently encumbered by the most delicious looking corset ever created – deep shades of red, silky smooth under this soft light, and brass hooks laid out like a trail, each one leading up to the swell of Myka’s breasts… all sweetly shaped and contained, curves and slopes accentuated to great detail…

“Turn around.”

Helena’s voice is raspy and it barely makes a sound in this silent room, but Myka hears her and does as requested – turning with languid ease, head slightly bowed so that the back of the neck is now an invitation… but Helena pulls her gaze downward, away from the lovely way that Myka’s skin stretches over the spine to where dark ribbons weave in and out – sleek material laid against a pale surface, caressing Myka’s back with lattice-like touches – and Helena is already reaching out, heart pounding excitedly in her chest even as her eyes calmly follow sure fingers towards their destination.

And it is just one second of contact – the tip of Helena’s finger to where satin and skin meet – but Myka’s whole body reacts…

…and air finally floods Helena’s lungs.

/

She pulls upon the ties once – just the once – and Myka’s hands flex upon the wall, a minute movement, and Helena’s lips find purchase where the neck dissolves into the shoulder and she peppers this heated flesh with erratic kisses; they are quick, they are gentle, they are firm, they are whispers.

The palm of her hand slips away from where stitching binds and keeps – from where it curls so wonderfully along Myka’s chest – to the wonders underneath, pushing beyond chosen confinement, and Myka lightly gasps and Helena’s knees almost buckle in response; instead she tumbles into the other woman with deafening desire.

And she unhooks these burnished clasps, watching as more and more of Myka is revealed, until her own ability to appreciate this sight – this glorious sight of blushing ivory, shuddering with inhalations and exhalations – is overwhelmed by her need to have, by her need to possess that which has been willingly given to her.

Helena lingers over one brass fitting, running the pad of her thumb over and over the knob as her other hand trails down to Myka’s hip, trails down and around Myka’s ass, trails down and down until she is pressing against hot wetness and Myka’s hips jerk backwards and into Helena’s body.

And so Helena leaves that last clasp intact – a small limitation within a limitless world – as she slides into Myka, as she slides into Myka so deeply that nails dig into that wooden wall and a low groan falls from Myka’s lips; as she thrusts with abandon – a slick give and take with Myka’s lust, as she winds her way through chestnut hair – leisurely drawing Myka’s head back until their lips can meet and Helena can capture every rough-hewn growl, every aching whimper, every perfect melody that is Myka in this moment…

…That is what Helena must have…

…and that is what Myka delivers.

/

In her time, a corset was a man-made trap.

But in this time…

Helena finds that she is more than happy to be caught.

/

(end)


	47. 'she sings and sing'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU; death

~ ~

It was before the war came, long before bombshells littered the pages of newspapers, and she slipped away to the local canteen – full of ladies in rich red lipstick and men with hair falling down into their faces – to dance while her mother and father were out of town.

No one came to their store anymore and so rubber-soles were often beating down the pavement.

She had done the same – leather belt used for a book carrier; ‘we’ve got encyclopedias and we’ve got dime-novels and we’ve got the farmer’s almanac.’

She has said the words often, at the doorstep of women with babies on their hips or standing on the stoop of big-bellied fellows with cigars hanging off of their lips – she has said the words often enough, they could come out of her while she sleeps.

But her mother and father are upstate, black smoke rumbling along the back-roads in search of coins and dollars…

…and so Myka goes dancing.

And she spins around, traded off from arm to arm, giddy with the music that her father does not like and giddy with the feeling of being free – it’s not real, she knows this, but… but it is dancing and no one is around to tell her to stop being foolish.

And there are no books for her to sell today.

/

It was before the war came, long before windows were covered up in shadows, and she walked to the river every day – dust and rocks shifting underneath her feet, the fluttering of green-gold leaves in a blue-sky breeze – to settle down in the tall grass and watch the water roll.

No one ever came down there anyway and so this rippling, muddy stream was her very own to have.

Staring after birds as they dipped and dived, listening to the frogs hop and splash and the whistling way the wind would blow – against the limbs, past the weeds – and she would fall back to the ground as if suddenly so very tired.

And Myka would look up into that sky – periwinkle without a single cloud – and this was before the sound of twin-engines cutting through the solitude, before fires blazed against the surface of everything…

…this was before the war came…

And there was nothing better than those days.

/

Before the war came, Myka had her eye on someone.

And Myka used to pray, down on her knees in her tiny bedroom, asking god to spare her such devilish feelings; to take away the wrong and make it right again.

But one flash of that grin – from around the corner, smooth as silk – and Myka felt a crazy kind of heat start low in her stomach; start low and then spread out to fingertips and toes, to the top of her head and deep down to where sin sits so heavily…

…want weighing upon her every night…

And so Myka prayed harder.

But god must have a strange way of answering pleas or maybe god just isn’t listening at all because once that hand reached out for her – pale and lovely – Myka just could not turn Helena away.

And they drifted away from houses, from streets and lamp-lights, from families and from crosses up on high and ended up in each other’s arms – laughing and falling… falling and breathing one another in… breathing and kissing for the first time…

And so Myka prayed even harder for this to never end.

/

_“Do you love me?”  
“I believe I do.”_

_Helena’s mouth tastes like sugar – so sweet and fine – and Myka shudders when a warm palm slips so effortlessly underneath the hem of her dress. And they lay there, surrounded by the night, sliding against one another… just like that river-water, just like that springtime breeze, just like the steady rhythm of walking up and down sidewalks…_

_“And do you love me?”  
“I do, I do…”_

_And Myka has no name for this feeling as it builds inside of her – it jumps, it twists, it races along her body like a fever – but Helena seems to know the way around these things, fingers pushing her apart and then pushing inside of her… opening her up like a blushing bloom… gathering these new melodies as they cascade from Myka’s tongue…_

_…grinding and trembling, overcome with such wicked desire and so she sings and sings and sings…_

/

…yes, those were the best days, those days before the war came…

…before the stream ran with blood and then ran dry, before the books were turned to ashes and those streets were nothing more than a series of dark gashes, before the canteen was carved open and left to rot, before her father had to pack them up and move them away…

…before Myka’s gaze fell upon Helena’s house – the one at the edge of town, with those towering oaks in the front yard and with that garden full of daffodils – and found it hollowed out, found it broken and smoldering…

…before Myka looked into Helena’s lifeless eyes – eyes that used to shine better than the stars, that used to set boys to spinning and girls to talking, that used to fix upon Myka’s face with so much tenderness – and life lost all meaning.

/

_They hold hands all the way back, swinging them to and fro, smiling in a way that is still shy – but Helena blows her a kiss from the driveway, sight almost lost in the darkness of these hours between moonlight and dawn…_

_…but Myka is able to catch that butterfly anyway._

_And Helena is long gone – walking fast down that gravel lane – but Myka stands there still, watching the girl until she disappears… swollen lips working over the words again and again…_

_“I do, I do… I do, I do…”_

/

(end)


	48. 'sailor to shore'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU

~ ~

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give thee, the more I have, For both are infinite.”  
—William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2

/ /

Winter is the worst because while the days may be shorter, the sun falls quicker from the sky – and there is no horizon to be seen and the waters turn deadly dark underneath the bow and so the world as you know it fades from view; a tiny flame snuffed out with a cold gust of salty air.

And there is the slapping of white-capped waves against the wood, there is a chill wrapping itself around every soul foolish enough to leave the land and the stars seem so distant now – a map left to flutter and then drift from one’s fingers – and winter is the worst, with its grey sea carrying them all far from their homes.

Helena’s leather-clad hands curl around ropes, pulling in the shadows and nodding her head as shouts drift down, and there’s no time to wipe away the licks from the ocean – slick and stinging like ice – and all is black, all is lost…

…and it is then that she hears it, whispering around the curve of her ear…

…and it’ll be a memory of love that keeps her warm on this long night…

/

_They met in a manner that most do – flashing eyes, bawdy tales, laughter around a coal fire burning too hot and the pink rose to her cheeks (she’s a rose, that’s what you always call her) while you grinned._

_And her father watched you like a hawk eyes a mouse, so you kept your whiskers as clean as you could – for a while, for a bit – but as the hours slipped past and the faces of your friends fell towards the crooks of arms…_

_…you asked her for a dance and she obliged - so very soft as you held her close - and she already knew you better than anyone else, you could see it in her green-eyed gaze…_

_…She knew you were not to be loved._

_You don’t know how to stay put, you don’t know how to stand still – and any girl with sense would turn you away, push off your whisky-soaked kisses and send you back to where you belong; back to the sea, back to the arms of the endless blue._

_But you were sober as a saint and she sacrificed knowing for wanting and the press of her lips to yours was enough to make a man drunk for days…_

_…or enough to make a woman like yourself consider throwing that anchor down._

/

The lantern light flickers and Helena looks up once to check that it won’t go out – and then she goes back to the piece of paper in her hand, with the knife-sharpened tip of a pencil pushing out letters… one after the other… letters to those left behind.

And the words are about springtime, about grass slipping between the toes, about flavors remembered (heavy on the tongue, heavy upon the mind) and sweets sticking to fingertips; and the words are about the past, about the tethers to the ground below and beyond these never-ending swells, about touches that still linger upon skin now left alone…

Helena looks back to the lantern, with its tidy glow of gold, and never has real warmth seemed so absent from her body and lord above, winter is the worst of all, with its frozen hold that will not let go.

And so she writes down the name with trembling hands – Myka Bering – and she gives it a kiss, stronger than any seal of wax, and prays for safe passage…

…for this missive of adoration and loneliness, for this wanderer who is ready to no longer roam…

/

_She comes to you – windswept and brazen – and your ardor is more than matched by her own, watching as she undoes the laces about her waist and as she slides delicate cotton from her shoulders…_

_…and she steals your breath away and then fills you up with her own…_

_You were so confident before this moment, with wicked stories culled from every dock that caught your boot-heels, but as you laid your head upon her chest – listening to her heart race as you tugged from her such pleasure, such stormy desires – you felt just like a child about to weep with need._

_And when she cried out your name, you should have known that your heart was forever forsaken…_

_…and she stole your breath away and then filled you up with her own…_

/

Now every breeze blows Helena backwards - back to that little town with the stone-houses and the smoke hanging about the shore, back to where the turnstones sing as they soar over the sand, back to the prettiest rose that ever did bloom…

…and the days grow longer and evening begins to lose its grip upon the heavens and the snow melts in the sky before it falls…

…and Helena is going home.

/

_“Promise you’ll come back.”_

_And that’s a promise that you’ve never said because the sea will make a liar out of all who roll upon her surface; the sea will take your promises and sink them._

_But your tongue just won’t be quiet and you are both such fools – fools to love like this, fools to ache and to pine – and yet you’ll say anything to see that smile on her face and you’ll do anything to make these words come true._

_“I’ll be returned to your doorstep before you know it, my rose…”_

/

And there are no banners held up high, no flags waving in welcome, no shouts from the muddy banks.

There is only candlelight against the window panes and an unlocked door; there is only Myka’s face turning and then splitting open in joy, there is only Myka’s arms ‘round Helena’s neck and the fragrant scent of that chestnut hair, there is only this and nothing else…

…there is only Myka and there is nothing else…

And the sails will continue to billow as summer calls out to young and old, to lead the ever-eager into those tides of temptation, but Helena’s face won’t be counted among them.

Because the current that once carried Helena away has now placed her within Myka Bering’s sure and tender hold…

…and so this weather-worn sailor has finally reached the shore, never more to ramble, never more to stray…

…and there in Myka’s kiss is the only freedom that Helena will need ever to know.

/

(end)


	49. 'it took you years'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post S3; death and ghosts

~ ~

It took you years, years to find the right spot upon your bed… but you finally did, sinking down with a faint smile gracing your lips – lips that slowly grow slack and then part, steady breathing that lulls you into a deeper slumber – and it took you years, so many years, but now I can watch you sleep and not want to cry.

/

Helena used to want so much more – a daughter returned, a world to end – but all she truly wanted was to be of use again; to be as noble as she pretended to be, to not be a killer but a savior.

Helena wanted to live to see that day upon her doorstep once more.

And so that day came to pass…

/

It took you years, years to forget the scenes playing out behind your eyelids… but you finally did and now you are able to blink without falling apart – to take in the world around you, all red and green and blue and endlessly beautiful – and it took you years, so many years, but now I can hear your laughter bounce off these walls and not want to turn back time.

/

If there had been one second more – just a silly, stupid second more – Helena would have curled her tongue around vowels and around sentiment; she would have dipped her feelings into the inkwell and written about such a love…

…such a fine love indeed…

But the white light – not of heaven but of a madman’s making – stole Myka’s face away from view and all of Helena’s seconds came to a close.

/

It took you years, years to let me go… but you finally did, by degrees and by hours, letting me drift off into your memory – so that you may chase new dreams, court new adventures – and it took you years, so many years, but now I can stand here… by your side, a silent shadow that no one – not even you - can see… and know that I had to lose you in order to save you…

…I had to let you go… let you go and let you be…

…I had to set you free.

/

Helena used to want so much more – to be the creator of the future, to be the destroyer of the past – but all she truly wanted was to be needed again; to be as amazing as she believed herself to be… to be as amazing as Myka Bering thought her to be…

Helena wanted to be needed by Myka Bering once more.

And so it was meant to be…

/

It took me years, years and years… but I finally slipped away, dissolving into a mist of energy as you walked through me – you shuddered, you glanced around – and, for a moment, I think you saw me… the shape of me, the hint of me…

…and you smiled upon reflex before your gaze widened…

…but that white light – not of heaven but of the unknown – stole you from my view and all of my moments have come to a close…

..and so it was meant to be.

/

(end)


	50. 'friday night sketch'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU; sex

/ /

It was called a study in light and dark, in cross-hatching for effect, in capturing emotion without seeing the face. And so, if you were someone outside looking in, you could make up your own version of reality: she is awake too early on a winter morning, she is staring at a lover still sleeping, she is lost and alone in a room she does not know…

And Myka wonders if any of these potential worlds are at all close to the truth.

But the charcoal stains her fingers and then breaks upon the canvas paper; pushing too hard, creating a sweeping shadow where there should be illumination, and a sigh that she won’t allow to pass her lips settles somewhere deep inside instead.

“Our model has offered to stay later for those of you who are behind schedule. Just add the extra time beside your name on the list.”

Myka grabs a fresh piece of paper (she tears the other one down the middle, watches it fall to the floor by her feet) and this rest of this room floods out into the street for another Friday night.

“Just let me get a drink of water and stretch my legs for a minute, okay?”

And Myka nods her head, saying nothing as she abandons the powdered for the pencil - picking through her metal case, catching glimpses of out of the corner of her eye (the arch of a foot as it moves, the fall of jet-black hair as the head tilts back) and she is caught, momentarily, by brown eyes over the rim of a glass.

“…You ready for me?”

And Myka is pretty sure that the sudden swarm of heat around her neck is inappropriate in this kind of situation. But it has been a while and this woman is attractive and this woman’s accent is kind-of sexy and… well, it’s been a while.

Myka just nods her head, though, leaning onto her right foot - one gaze on blank white, one gaze on the model - as the bed-sheet is once more placed in the correct position and the features once more obscured…

…only there is a difference this time, one that Myka cannot help but focus on…

…and she should say something because the drawing required of her is not supposed to have any overt nudity…

But Myka doesn’t say a word.

And she’s got one gaze on the art - there is definition and there is texture, she makes a few strokes and then smooths them out with the pad of her thumb; and she’s got one gaze on the woman - the soft light playing against even softer looking skin, the delicate swell of her breast exposed, the delicious way the spine curves and then disappears…

It takes a moment to fully register what is happening - she is still drawing line after line, she is still staring at points of interest - but the bed-sheet pools at the woman’s feet and Myka looks into brown eyes that seem to reflect this unexpected spark of lust.

Three strides, just the three, and Myka’s fingers come to a halt as this woman’s warm hand slides against her cheek and pulls until their lips come together.

And Myka thinks about a lot of things as she returns these kisses (these hot, wet, all-encompassing kisses) - the taste of a tongue, the sound of the pencil hitting the floor, the dusting of charcoal upon pale flesh, the awareness of her jeans being undone and the sensation of a sure touch sliding through increasingly slick heat.

Five strides, just the five, and they fall onto that bed that has been empty all along. And Myka loves the weight of this woman on top of her, loves the feeling of bare skin finally brushing against her own (how’d she undo those buttons of my shirt so quickly?), loves the way firm fingers curl inside of her, push inside of her, drag in and out of her so fucking slowly that traditional torture now seems kind.

“…Faster… please… go faster…”

The command is nothing more than a moan, covered up and buried by this woman’s mouth, but it is followed nonetheless and Myka’s hips jerk helplessly as that gradual thrusting becomes quicker, becomes harder, becomes the only thing in this entire world that Myka cares about.

And some people see God, some people fall in love, but Myka sees her orgasm as a prism of color; it is a kaleidoscope of every hue - bright and blinding and beautiful - spinning behind her rolled-back eyes… hundreds of colors burning white-hot throughout her body, burning until she shudders and exhales and comes at last…

“Let’s get back to work then, shall we?”

It is a low murmur into Myka’s ear and her eyes re-open just in time to see the woman walking back to the window, back to the sheet, back to the same position that was held before - when this was just a class and there were other students around.

Everything is like it was before.

Except Myka’s jeans are still undone and Myka’s shirt is still unbuttoned and Myka’s whole body is pin-balling between feeling heavy with satisfaction and feeling hypersensitive with lingering pleasure… and so nothing is at all like it was before.

“…But… what about you…?”

And the woman looks over at her with a wicked little smile dancing upon those lips.

“We’ve got all night for you to… finish your drawing, do we not?”

And Myka nods her head in return, a tiny grin beginning to form upon her lips as well.

“Yeah… Yeah, we do…”

/ /

(end)


	51. 'that's something'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU; sequel to 'friday night sketch'; sex

/ /

The woman is seconds away from flexing her hands, pressing fingers onto the surface of this mattress and then the legs will come to life - thighs growing solid as muscles react - and then feet will find the floor underneath them.

And Myka will watch these movements in black-and-white.

And what was reality will become inspiration; what was a connection will soon dim to oblique patterns upon paper.

And they both know this to be true.

But she is collapsing on the floor, so sweetly cold to the touch, and her eyes finally shut at five in the morning - sated down to the marrow - and the easel in the corner holds this creation and there is a rough mark upon her cheek… a blackened smudge, a kiss without a commitment…

And so she sleeps.

/ /

_‘Much warmer than is normally your style… The others saw only loneliness or the state of being aloof, but you… you saw a lover…’_

The words still ring in her ears days and days later. 

And winter in the city is colder than it is out west and she clutches this cheap cup of coffee in her hands - steam fluttering over her face, warring with the icy fog from her lips - but then there the woman is, a spark against stone and across the street… hailing a cab as black hair flies around upon an exhaust-filled breeze…

Myka wants to trace each and every dark strand.

/ /

They don’t call. They don’t text. They don’t show up on doorsteps, hunting down each other like predator and prey.

But if the woman is in the studio and if Myka is in the course, then there is something implicit in their continued silence with one another…

_…and Myka flattens her palm over the woman’s stomach, pushing down hard before leaning forward to trail her tongue over the edge of the rib-cage; soaking in the hiss and the moan, picturing the woman’s face and already drawing what she imagines to be…_

They are not dating. They are not exclusive. This woman has others waiting for a touch; Myka has a late-night rendezvous with sturdy parchment.

But if everyone else is gone and the doors are locked against the long night, then there is a fair chance that the woman will suggest that they go back to her place and Myka will nod her head in agreement…

_…and she has yet to say the woman’s name, though she knows it now; she’s keeps it close, keeps it lodged in her throat and has left its extraction from her body as an unspoken challenge, but the slow slide of fingertips over her clit is wonderfully agonizing and this caress repeats and repeats until Myka is rendered speechless except for one utterance…_

/ /

This isn’t love, after all. This isn’t some stupid film, this isn’t some saccharine-sweet novel.

They are not soul-mates cut from the same cloth.

But they are something… They are something nonetheless.

/ /

_“…Helena…”_

/ /

A series of strokes, of charcoal-dusted slashes; an outline of a person or a muse from on-high - faceless and lovely, about to rise and walk away from Myka’s bed…

…and that’s something.

That’s something nonetheless.

/ /

(end)


	52. 'the lover'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written by request; kink-sex

~ ~

If she were a painter, now would be the time to drag out the brushes and use hundreds of liquid hues to capture this moment; if she were much of a writer anymore, now would be the hour to put pen to paper and try to recreate this breathless second with mere words.

But all she is – perhaps all she will ever be when it comes to this woman – is a lover.

And Helena has become a master in the art of physical adoration.

/

It is summertime and the house is unbearably hot – even with windows thrown open, even with fans spinning lazily overhead – and so the bed sheet hangs low upon Myka’s hips. Long legs covered up, but just barely; there is a hint of a well-toned thigh beneath this cotton ocean. And one arm rests upon this tank-top covered stomach – fingers gently curled – and the other arm rest tightly by the side, almost to the point of being pinned down by Myka’s own weight.

The leaves rustle outside, dancing with the nighttime breeze and with each flutter a new pocket of light falls onto Myka’s sleeping face – the closed lashes, the full lips, the ivory cheek, and the relaxed jawline – all of it illuminated briefly and then returned to shadow.

A single curl falls away from the others – a minor detail, a subtle invitation – and Helena softly threads these silken strands between her fingers; leans down to inhale the scent of each one and remains very close – close enough to kiss the skin, close enough to tug Myka from slumber…

…if she wanted to do such a thing…

…but Helena’s hand travels along another path instead, one that she knows quite well.

She bestows touches – to that delicate hollow of the throat, near the edges of the collar-bone, over breasts still clothed… and it is there that she takes her time, dragging the tip of a fingernail around and around – slow but firm circles - until some part of Myka is awakened even if the eyes remain shut. And the nipple hardens so readily, so willingly, and Helena blinks – wide-eyed - with a kind of wonder that never seems to dull and never seems to fade from her bloodstream.

Myka’s lips part – only just – and Helena studies the contour of those lips as she quietly pulls the edge of this tank-top down, gradually exposing what has now been aroused. Helena’s gaze drifts from Myka’s mouth to that stiff peak of darker flesh, how it rises and falls with each breath that Myka takes, and with the next inhalation… Helena’s tongue reaches out to slide over Myka’s nipple.

And that one breath breaks a little bit as it crescendos; that one breath becomes lodged somewhere in Myka’s body and then tenderly shudders past those parted lips – head shifting less than a millimeter, another curl tumbles away from its home – but nothing more, not yet, and so Helena swirls the tip of her tongue over this warm surface, lavishing affection with calm and dedicated strokes until one of those exhalations sounds more like a gasp.

And the leaves rustle. And the light breaks through. And Helena’s heavy-lidded stare goes back to Myka’s face – to the brow now lightly furrowed, to the subtle stretch of the neck; Helena looks upon this dream-like awareness with a smile and then presses her lips to the swell of Myka’s breast.

Another whisper of a breath falls into this July night, a little deeper than before, and then it is the brush of skin against sheets – hips tilt minutely, one leg opens languidly to the right – and Helena’s palm glides down the center of Myka’s torso to the hem of this thin piece of clothing, pushing it up and away. And her fingers trace invisible lines there – underneath ribs and around the bellybutton and upon a stomach that seems to shiver with sensory recognition…

…and Myka moans carelessly in her sleep.

The sheet is set aside to reveal the dips and curves and Helena removes barriers steadily - inch by inch - placing her lips and her tongue and her teeth to each new patch of moonlit skin; against the bone jutting into the warm atmosphere (incisors imperceptibly sinking in), wet trails left along the juncture between the top of a thigh and the abdomen.

And Myka’s body begins to give in to these unspoken ministrations; the side of her face pushes into the pillow a little more definitely, the breathing becomes labored, becomes heavier… and another moan slips free – a lower and longer one this time - when Helena’s touch finally grazes over that slick apex of subconscious want.

The hips lift searchingly, canting with somnolent grace, and Helena has to pace her own longings now. She has to hold back, just enough… just so… and make this last until only one conclusion remains… and so this caress is slight in nature, somewhat tremulous when it is normally forthright, but the result of Myka’s lust still coats the tip of Helena’s index finger and a helpless groan not only spills from Myka’s mouth but from Helena’s as well.

And each stroke lengthens, goes a bit further, delves in a second longer… and Helena must decide – here and now – just how far this wondrous creation is to go, just how perfect this masterpiece must be before inevitable oblivion.

Will it be Myka’s release or her own? Will it be together or separate? Will it be with eyes wide open or still sweetly shut?

“…Helena…”

Three syllables wrapped up in the voice of one caught between reality and fantasy, with hips rolling indolently and the repeated press of silky wetness against Helena’s static fingers – and the questions fall apart and there is only one answer to obey tonight.

All it takes it one final thrust – Myka still within a dream, Helena’s touch now quite firm – and Helena is slipping inside of this woman… this woman that is her world and her life and her everything…

/

…and if she were a painter, now would be the time to drag out the brushes and use hundreds of liquid hues to capture this moment; if she were much of a writer anymore, now would be the hour to put pen to paper and try to recreate this breathless second with mere words.

But all she is – perhaps all she will ever be when it comes to this woman – is a lover.

Perhaps that is all she wishes to be.

/

And Myka sighs in ecstasy and eyelids flutter – open to close, close to open; fingers twist that tank-top and fingers flex against the mattress and all the while she is pulling Helena in more and more, deeper and deeper – bucking and begging - and those sensual epiphanies end up strangled in her throat, reduced to a series of panting moans…

…and they see one another right as Myka’s orgasm hits…

…and yes, a lover… Myka’s lover…

…that is all Helena wants to be from now on.

/

(end)


	53. 'and that's not good at all'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set during S2

/

What makes it hard - hard to swallow, hard to admit, hard to think about late at night while everyone else is passed out - is the fact that ‘good’ doesn’t even begin to cut it as a descriptor of H.G. Wells.

The ‘real’ H.G. Wells, that is.

The writer that Myka thought she knew is now broken down, pieces falling into her hands unexpectedly, and as the clock strikes midnight… she is left to rebuild what she once believed to be fact; replacing an older face with a younger one, stripping away a mustache and smoothing out the skin, watching the lines that were once cut for a gentleman of the past morph into the subtle curves of a woman lost in time.

No… ‘good’ does not even come close.

It’s there, at the base of her skull - tickling and tingling like nerve-endings suddenly severed - it’s there, this feeling of intrigue and of interest; it’s there, nudging her shoulder with frightening awareness…

No, ‘good’ just does not work at all - not for this H.G. Wells…

But all those other words that fit - all those other words that rest right on the tip of Myka’s tongue… oh, they fit all too well…

And that’s not good at all.

/

(end)


	54. 'you've got it back'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myka POV; before the end of 'Stand'

/ /

you’ve got it back, don’t you? that indefinable thing that was missing - misshapen section of your life, curves left empty - you’ve got it back now, don’t you?

and home never felt like home. and you couldn’t go back until she told you to. and you were forgiving her even as she tore you apart. and you’d let her back in a million times over… just because, just because of this, just because of this thing that’s been missing…

…and she’s the only one who ever fit.

but you’ve got it back now, don’t you? and you tell yourself that this is it - the bridges have been rebuilt, these fences have finally been pulled down - and there’s no need to end the world anymore, no need to let the past dictate the present anymore, there’s no reason why they can’t be together… not anymore…

…because you’ve got it back - you’ve got her back - and this is it; the lines meeting up in synchronicity and this is not coincidence and maybe you’ve been turning a blind eye to fate but not today, no.. not today…

today, you’ve got it back, don’t you?

you’ve got her back, don’t you?

/ /

(end)


	55. 'unstable'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S2; sex

~ ~

Of all the things she is not supposed to do, having sex with H.G. Wells is at the top of that list.

First off, H.G. Wells should be a dead, male author; lost in a sea of other talented writers who shaped the future of the written word, important to a few wayward girls – the ones who had no friends – and then nothing more.

Instead, H.G. Wells is a woman and isn’t dead and is big, bad mess just waiting to happen.

So, they are not supposed to talk. But they do.

And they are not supposed to solve puzzles. But they do.

They are not supposed to be friends. But they are.

And of all the things they are not supposed to be, being lovers is at the top of that list.

But Myka looks at the floor of her bedroom, to the dust that falls from her pants and onto the wood; she looks at a single golden strand – all dry and bent as it lingers near the edge of her boot-heel – and these things she is not supposed to do, not supposed to be…

…Well, it’s all fucked up now.

/

It was a rush of events – artifact, chase, tumble, punch, sweat, snag, and then bag – followed by relief and a grin. And Myka isn’t supposed to be happy for the help, isn’t supposed to look over at this woman (who should be a man, who should be dead) and feel so damn good to see this woman’s face.

_Pete is reaching out on the Farnsworth but Myka might as well be deaf._

And it was a rush of sensations – smile to the skin, skin to heat, heat to the heart – followed by the stuttering way that Myka replied to whatever H.G. said and the flush of shyness stained her cheeks and those dark eyes did a real number on Myka’s senses; they tied her up, they tore down, they saw a crack and they pushed their way in.

_And H.G. pulls her up with both hands, keeps her close, and slowly removes a piece of hay from her hair._

And it was a rush – into her bloodstream, all over her body, drowning out the logic and the warnings – followed by the careening way that lust so loves to move and Myka propelled herself forward until her lips found H.G.’s lips, until they stumbled back and back and back and into a wall. They jarred the bridles hanging on hooks, they pressed against ropes hanging uselessly, and they slid upon loose leather until they hit the ground.

_H.G. pushes inside of her, hand rough beneath denim just barely unzipped, and they don’t so much kiss as they breathe one another in… and there are a million reasons why this should not be happening but Myka’s fist is full of black hair and – right now, oh god right now – this dark horse is only reason for anything at all._

/

They are not supposed to be anything at all.

And Myka makes her lists; Myka damn well checks them twice.

But there’s a piece of hay on her bedroom floor and she’ll know the truth even if no one else ever will.

/

(end)


	56. 'the terrible timing of love'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helena POV; S2

~ ~

She’d call it the terrible timing of love – how it likes to make the heart beat harder even though you are close to dying, how it likes to laugh in the face of all of your planning and all of your plotting – but love never comes at the right time… or the wrong time…

…It just arrives, heavy upon the doorstep like a layer of ice.

She slips; she falls.

/

Myka Bering isn’t hard to figure out, after all. All the papers, all the notes, and the story of this woman’s past – it doesn’t matter. Helena knows this woman like only twin-souls can recognize one another; there is a mirror in those green eyes and reflected back is every facet of who Helena once was.

When Helena looks at Myka Bering, she is looking at herself.

…How wonderfully narcissistic…

And Myka Bering is hard to figure out, in the end. All the moments, all the hints, and there are still chapters left untouched – it matters… oh, these things matter. Helena cannot begin to know this woman, with loss that does not break and with slights that do not mortally wound; there is a mirror in those damn eyes and reflected back is the monster that Helena has allowed herself to become.

When Helen looks at Myka Bering, she is terrified of herself.

/

…How wonderfully dire…

/

Pressed against the books, with each spine emitting a dusty cough, a hot gaze travels a slow and winding road around Helena’s face; studying, always studying and seeking and searching.

Here among the brittle pages, here among the softness of paragraphs and the quiet of unspoken sentences, here is where Myka Bering makes her first mistake.  
Or where Helena makes hers… it doesn’t matter, in the end…

There is a kiss. There is a series of kisses. There is a touch. There is a series of touches. There is a gasp as lips press to skin, as endless titles look upon this transgression and how is it that a miscalculation can taste so sweet? How is it that these fingers know which way to turn and which way to twist within Helena’s body?

How is it that this is happening now – now, with the world so close to destruction…?

/

…she is slip, slip, sliding…

…and she falls…

/

(end)


	57. 'remember this'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> choose your own season; death

~ ~

Remember this, cherish this, take this down in a letter in your mind and then read it again and again; don’t forget this, remember this, carve words into the stone and run your fingers over every vowel, every noun.

And they are soft and they are strong, sealed at first – like they are five years old and like they’ve never kissed anyone before. But it is just each other that they have never kissed before and so it is soft – but strong, so very strong – and it is shy, it is timid.

And then it is more – not better, just more – and Helena’s lips open up and Myka falls in.

Slip of the tongue, curling around what they were forever trying to say…

_“We made a good team… didn’t we?”  
“’We did… and then…”_

…sliding over what they were forever trying to feel, forever trying to fix…

_The back of your dark head, my eyes to the dusty ground – and I’ve lost everything again… I’ve lost you again…_

…and Myka cups this face, this pale and perfect face; she cradles Helena’s face with tender hands and she cannot stop herself from draining this last breath, this last promise unchecked, this last kiss that is a first kiss that is the only kiss.

Remember this.  
Cherish this.  
Take this down in a letter, carve it into stone.  
Read it again and again, run your fingers over these vowels, these nouns.

And Helena’s head lolls to the side, eyes open but seeing nothing, and the lips remain parted – bruised with this life’s final gift – and Myka doesn’t hear the voices around her anymore; not Pete, not Claudia, no one, no one, no one…

…but she’ll remember this.

Their first kiss. Their only kiss. Their last kiss.

And she’ll remember nothing else.

/

(end)


	58. 'better than this'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-S2; AU; kink-sex, slightly dark

~ ~

It is never better than when it is torn away – thighs clenched, body into the wall; it is never better than when it is taken by force – the citadel of one’s self now stormed and left in ruins.

And it helps that they do not see each other all the time – Helena lost that chance anyway (cracks in the ground, cracks of insanity) and Myka had to let those harbored dreams of romance flutter away like ashes upon her fingertips; and it helps that they do not talk about it afterwards – dressing in silence as doors softly click shut again and as names are never said, as calls are never made, as the usual trappings of a love affair are forever absent.

But it is never better than this – the sting of a palm against the skin, flesh of ivory soon rendered red… flushed, blushing, and suddenly raw…

_…No, it is never better than this._

/

Helena begs for sweet release.

This plea trembles along the woman’s skin – a shiver through the shoulders, breath catching in the throat, a blissful groan of agony – and Myka’s fingers twist just a bit more around Helena’s forearm.

Helena begs for forgiveness.

This want lingers within those dark eyes – when they don’t kiss and only fuck one another, when they don’t touch and only hurt one another – and Myka has learned the fine art of looking away.

And she wants to tell Helena that it will never be better than this – not for the two of them - because they’ll never have a chance at anything more.

Especially now as Myka jerks down on Helena’s unzipped jeans, as she presses Helena’s body further against the edge of this desk and pins that arm against Helena’s back, as she delivers these blows and nearly orgasms with every blood-like bloom, with every painful moan from lips shoved into cold wood.

And Helena begs and begs…

…and Myka answers in the only way that she knows how.

/

_…oh, but it could have been… oh god it could have been…_

And Helena’s car is long gone and this night is so damn cold and the air falls from her lips in an icy fog. But Myka stands in the silence of this parking lot, waiting as winter’s chill sinks into her bones and robs her hands of such deadly heat, of such terrible desire.

_…and it could have been more than this… they could have been so much more than this…_

And Helena is gone and this night is so damn long and the tears come unbidden to her eyes. But she wipes each one away with anger, with bitter conviction, and soon there will be nothing as frozen as her heart; nothing as hard and as unyielding as this love.

_…because they could have been better than this…_

/

But they never will be.

/

(end)


	59. 'in another life'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-S3 if Helena had stayed dead; AU-ish; gender-switch

~ ~

You say ‘in another life’ and so you’ve set up a pattern, haven’t you?

/

It’s the eyes that arrest his attention first – dark, deep brown – and he thinks that he has seen them in hundreds of dreams… you know the kind, the ones that slip away once you think of them too hard… but there they are – staring back at him from across this crowded room.

Drink in hand, music too loud, and he didn’t even want to be here – parties aren’t really his ‘thing’ – but his friends tell him that life is about living and so the books are put down for once; the studies set aside, microscope covered up and left in the dark, glasses sliding down his face while the rest of the world dances…

…and those eyes look over, look away, look over and then come closer…

He swallows hard, nearly choking on this watered-down beer, but he manages a small smile of shyness and of interest and mister-dark, deep brown eyes grins in return.

“Hey.”  
“Hello.”

/

You say ‘in another life, we’ll meet again’ and so you’ve toyed with karma, haven’t you?

/

It’s dates and it’s talking and he has never felt like this before; never felt like shouting until his voice is gone, never felt like running until passing out, never felt like watching stars fall from the sky and attaching wishes to them…

…and those eyes – those damn dark, deep brown eyes – look back at him like they know everything about everything and they kiss and the world just slips away from his hold, leaving him to only grasp and grapple with this astonishing man in his midst…

…this man who has totally changed his world… this man who has broken every rule that he used to believe in so completely…

…and it’s chemical and it’s magical and he is in love…

This is love.

/

You say ‘in another life, we’ll meet again and this time…’ and so you’ve asked for the impossible, haven’t you?

/

And they have years with each other – dinners and disasters, mistakes and making-up, arms that embrace and tears that fall down, fights and laughter, days and nights – and the morning comes tumbling down and he looks over to the space beside of him and it is empty.

It just doesn’t get any easier.

Even after five years – five years gone – and even after all the time they had – they had so much time, so many years, years upon years – and it just doesn’t get any easier.

He keeps looking for a sly glance from around the corner. He keeps searching for that hand against the small of his back – warm and sure and strong. He keeps waking up and expecting those dark, deep eyes to be already on him… staring at him like he is everything that ever mattered…

And it just doesn’t get any easier, even after they had a lifetime with one another.

/

You say ‘in another life, we’ll meet again and this time, this time we’ll be together’ and so you’ve made it all come true, haven’t you?

/

_“I told you that I’d find you.”_

And he has had this dream hundreds of times before and he smiles into the night – the long, long night at the end of his long, long days.

_“I told you that I wouldn’t let you go.”_

And he has had this dream hundreds of times before – even as a child, jumbled up in his brain like puzzle pieces scattered – and he blinks at the shadows that take on the appearance of a face, of a face that he knows so very well and yet doesn’t know at all.

_“I told you that this time… this time we would be together…”_

And he has had this dream – this dream of dark, deep brown eyes – hundreds of times before and he sighs into this second of endless sleep; a sigh that sounds like a name he has never said and it just falls from his tongue, it just slips past his lips like he has been saying this name all along.

“…I know, Helena… I know…”

/

You say ‘in another life’ and so I’ll meet you there…

…I’ll find you.

/

(end)


	60. 'just one more chance'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written due to a bet

~ ~

Somewhere behind the eyes or buried in the heart are the millions of ways that this fate could come to pass – an artifact, a bullet wound, a coffin of bronze, the ticking of a clock, hands around the throat.

Myka feels as though she has seen this scenario play out so many times before.

And the gaze widens as the seconds slow down, as she watches Helena’s body drop to the ground – slashed and torn, turning even more pale as a darkening pool of blood pushes past the skin and into the material of a shirt… it is the color of life; it is color of Helena’s life sliding through those fingers…

…fingers that have tinkered and toyed, fingers that have built and destroyed, fingers that have paused – against the trigger, near to Myka’s face – fingers that have weaved their way into this new world and have taken hold of Myka’s heart…

_Somewhere… behind the eyes…_

And Myka has already slammed the heel of her hand into this man’s jaw – up and in, cracking the bone – and she is already ignoring his wailing of pain as he staggers to the left and then stumbles to the floor; she is already on her knees – a bitter mockery of supplication, of begging to a god that surely doesn’t exist – and shoving her own fear aside so that she can work, so that she can save, so that she can turn this all around and make Helena wake up again.

_…somewhere… buried in the heart…_

And Helena’s pulse is weak and Myka’s palms are stained in rich red and she has called for help – her voice rough with something like terror, with something like weeping – and Helena’s lips lay slack and Myka wants to scream; she wants to pound this chest, she wants to shake this body back to life… she wants to turn back the hours and say all the things she meant to say but never did…

They’ve had so many second chances… but Myka wants a third chance, a fourth chance, a tenth chance… a million fucking chances…

…and then just one more, just one more chance.

And she’s never been this close to the other woman – close enough to see the faint lines that live at the corner of Helena’s mouth, close enough to study the delicate curve of Helena’s ear – and she’s never been the kind of person to make someone listen to her if they do not want to and yet these words still fall from her tongue.

“You don’t get to do this… do you understand?”

…and she is close enough to brush a kiss against black strands of hair, close enough to feel the softness of an ivory cheek…

“You do not get to die on me… do you hear me, Helena?”

…and she is close enough to press this demand to Helena’s jawline, close enough to let this plea slide against Helena’s forehead…

“…Please… Please don’t go…”

…and she is close enough to know that this is love, close enough to admit that this woman is the beginning and the end of everything that will ever matter, close enough caress Helena’s face for the very first time and revel in the sensation and they have both lost so damn much…

…but Myka isn’t going to lose Helena – not today, not ever again.

/

“Quite a scar you’ve got there.”  
“Well it certainly isn’t the only one…”  
“Hmmm… you should show me the others sometime…”

Fingertips dance lightly but the look in Myka’s eyes isn’t light at all – it is dark, it is alluring – and Helena cannot remember much from that day; that day that almost removed her from this existence for the millionth time and it could have been anything – an artifact, a bullet wound, a coffin of bronze, the ticking of a clock, hands around the throat.

Or even the slipping of a knife blade beneath her bones.

But in the haze of pain and of blood-loss, as consciousness started to fade away from her firm grip… Helena heard a voice, heard a command that could not be ignored… and that black edge – the fathomless depths of whatever lies beyond living – receded from view and brown eyes refocused upon the world once more…

_…it was somewhere… somewhere behind the eyes or buried in the heart…_

…and it was Myka that Helena found.

And she won’t lose this woman – not today, not ever again.

/

(end)


	61. 'the trigger'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU; Myka POV

~ ~

Your whole life – held back, held down – and what you couldn’t reveal with recollection, you expressed with aggression; boots shined with your own spit and sweat, finger never wavering against the trigger and heart never stopping with the gunshot.

You’ve made a mockery of love and you’ve turned affection into a cold science.

And this is your life – this is your whole life – and it takes everything in you to remember this fact whenever she walks into view.

/

In your mind, she is caught in your crosshairs and you are watching her drop to the ground – blood seeping into the pavement, into the cracks where the weeds grow and where the bugs scramble – as the maid barrels out the front door with a scream.

In your mind, you’ve done your job and are already walking away. 

Walking back to your empty apartment, back to your rooms with the lights always off, back to a darkness that you have bought and an anonymity that you’ve cultivated for years upon years…

…In your mind, all of this happened days ago and you’ve already forgotten her face.

/

This is the first time that your mind has been such a fucking liar.

/

You don’t know what she has done to earn this death sentence, you don’t know what that ring on her fourth finger really means, you don’t know about her overpriced SUV or her penchant for skin-tight black dresses… you don’t know about the way she loves to stretch languidly in the sunlight as the chlorine ripples by her side…

Okay, so maybe you know more than you should.

Maybe you’ve watched her for longer than necessary; maybe you’ve watched and you’ve stared and maybe when she laughs a grin tugs at the corners of your mouth and your grip on this piece steel grows slack and maybe you don’t want to see her die as much as you’d like to see her live…

/

It’s been from a distance – roof tops, windows tucked away – but you are closer now.

God, you are too close.

/

And you can hear the traffic outside of these walls and you can hear music down in the streets and yet you can still hear your heart drumming in your naked chest, you can still hear the pounding of your newfound desire.

And you lay on your bed and your damp hair sticks to your face as you twist and turn and writhe, as you give up on pointless foreplay and as you picture her body beneath yours and as you thrust fingers into yourself with a kind of reckless abandon that you thought long gone from your system.

And when you come it is like being punched in the face – you see stars, you hurt like hell, you feel dizzy and you feel sick – and your other hand pulls upon the sheet until it slips away from the corner of the mattress and you pant and you moan and your eyes squeeze shut until you find her looking back at you.

/

The next time she laughs you are only a few feet away – busy café, glasses clinking and conversations bubbling – and the sound of it nearly breaks you.

/

You’ve made a mockery of love.

And now love will make a fool of you.

/

It tastes good to get smacked around; it wakes you up and shakes you loose from this dream.

And they give you one more chance to make good on this contract, to make good on the money that they have already paid you – because you are that talented, because you are that reliable – or it’ll be your flesh that they will take payment from.

These people make other people disappear after all… and no one will shed a tear if Myka Bering doesn’t come home again.

/

And with one eye shut, you watch her walk and you imagine all the places in which your bullet could find purchase – a swift kiss to the neck, a quick caress to the center of the chest – and you grit your teeth and your muscles tense and you hold your breath…

…you hold it down, you hold it back…

/

…and this is your life – this is your whole life – and it’s worth nothing to you now.

/

Brown eyes are confused and conflicted – a little scared, too – but you describe the men who hired you and the slow realization seems to slide over her face and while she is putting this puzzle together…

…you are watching her and she is so damn close and it takes everything in you to not reach out and jerk her to you and press your lips to hers.

“What about you? What will happen to you?”

She is looking at you and she is studying you and all you want to do is touch her – just once – before the truth tumbles out of you.

/

And she feels like silk.

/

“I’m already dead.”

/

Helena Wells changed her name and moved to another city; she lost all her old accounts, all her old friends, all the pretty strings and ribbons that bound her to that other life.

And she disappeared.

/

Only she didn’t disappear alone.

/

(end)


	62. 'you're the only thing i ever want anymore'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post-S3 AU; drug-use
> 
> title from 'Conversation 16' by The National

~ ~

You look into the mirror and you are ready to admit the truth; you are ready to admit that you are weak.

. . .

What do you do after you pick up the pieces and still feel broken? Where do your eyes turn when all that you search for is gone? How do you save a bit of hope for yourself when every beat of your heart only spells out ‘hopeless?’

The questions keep Myka awake – as they have many times before – and the answers, as always, remain out of reach. And she knows that she is slowly retreating; she is laying down her arms – silently, subtly - and this white flag is wrapped around her shoulders now, covering her like a shroud.

And she’s been awake for days; awake when the sunlight pushes past the clouds and awake when the stars hang heavy in the sky.

Someone touches her shoulder – it’s Pete – and the tesla is almost shaking in her hand; trembling with cold efficiency upon some poor soul under an artifact’s hold, and Pete’s eyes tell her everything.

Nothing is right.

Nothing is right anymore.

. . .

You are ready to admit that you have given up on everything. You’ve given up on everything but this.

. . .

And she wasn’t picking apart the aisles in search for a solution because there isn’t a solution for this and Myka follows these rules to the letter – it’s all she has left, these rules, these regulations and the ‘right’ thing to do – but wicked magic comes to people in the strangest of ways, doesn’t it?

And spells are easy to weave around the head of one so shattered.

_“Tell me a memory. Make it a good one and you can have it whenever you like, you can have it for the rest of your life.”_

And then the bottle is in Myka’s hands.

. . .

You look into the mirror and you are ready to admit the truth.

You are ready to admit that the Myka Bering you used to know is forever gone.

. . .

Myka runs her thumb over the paper label and it hurts like to hell to read that name – reduced to simple script and no longer attached to a face; no longer a series of sweet syllables sliding past her lips.

But she is thinking of the future, of a time beyond the liquid hidden within this dark brown glass…

…and those are the moments that wound Myka in her sleep; blades slipping under her skin until they peel back the muscle and she is exposed to this agony all over again – a woman wiped away by an inferno, a smile that haunts from around corners.

She loses Helena all over again.

But that’s another time; that is now and this potion can give her yesterday.

_“Helena, after reinstatement but before Egypt.”_

And this recollection rests on the tip of her tongue before rushing down her throat, before flooding her bloodstream, before it snaps back into existence and Myka is standing outside of Helena’s room – clothes still in disarray, suitcase still open – and then Helena is looking at her with a shy grin, with a warm gaze, with nothing but days and days ahead of the two of them.

_“I fear I am still rather overwhelmed by all of this…”_

And it is Helena’s voice and it tears down a wall that Myka has spent hours upon hours building and rebuilding and the warmth spreads out from Myka’s chest to her arms, to her legs, to her fingers and to her toes.

_“It’ll be okay. I can help you settle in… if you want me to…”_

And Helena tilts her head and that grin is no longer shy – it lights up this room – and Myka remembers and Myka feels and this is everything, oh god this is everything and Myka swears to not let go this time – this time she’ll hold on tighter and this time she won’t let Helena disappear.

_“I’d like that very much.”_

. . .

It’s been weeks and Pete is holding her face in his hands – he is scared – and Myka blinks and then pushes him away; he won’t budge and so she pushes even harder, hands turn to fists against his chest, and his eyes are wounded.

“Why won’t you let me help you?”

He is yelling and it hurts her ears; she’s not had to hear that kind of noise in a while – it’s been whispers with eyes closed and it’s been conversations that have already happened and it’s been the delicate sensation of Helena… they hold their breath and stare at one another and Myka has made a home of this unspoken tension…

“Mykes, please… just talk to me and we can work this out…”

And she laughs at him, suddenly aware with her head propped up against this wall and with a death-grip around this tiny bottle; she laughs at him because what the hell does he know?

What did he ever know about Helena? What did he ever know about this love – stronger than madness, bigger than a goddamn bomb – what the hell does he know about anything?

“I don’t want to work it out.”

And he looks so lost, like a little child, and Myka wants to tell him to go find his own happy place; to go find his own memory to chase down and cling to… because Myka has found hers and she won’t let go – not this time, not this time, not this time…

. . .

_“I like this. It’s quiet.”  
“I thought you might.”_

And the moonlight was so beautiful – is so beautiful, it is so beautiful – as it falls over Helena’s face and Myka’s hand is dancing with nervousness against her own knee or on top of the arm of this chair and it might have never stopped had Helena not reached over… 

…Helena reaches over and softly places Myka’s hand within her own.

_“…I like this, too.”_

And Myka looks to the moon, looks to the shadows of the trees and she listens to the cicadas as they sing and something so tender comes to life inside of her body and if she could carve it out this feeling and share it with the woman sitting beside of her – well, Myka would… Myka would do just that.

Instead, she smiles as the night surrounds them and she focuses on the perfect way the lines of their palms come together and she stays when running would be safer and she doesn’t let go – not this time, not this time, not this time…

_“…So do I.”_

. . .

(end)


	63. 'things you've yet to say'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helena POV

~ ~

…there are things you’ve yet to say and you don’t know if there will ever be a ‘right’ time – not with the two of you – because time has a funny way of sliding in between the two of you and there are things she has not said yet and you don’t know if she ever will – tongue caught against the teeth – because you’ve hurt her and there was never enough time… there’s never enough time… to say just how sorry you are…

…and then she presses her mouth to yours.

/

It wasn’t a fight but it was close to it and Myka’s voice breaks – just the once – but that’s more than enough to let Helena know how much absence can wound the heart left behind; it doesn’t always have to be death that tears them apart, it doesn’t always have to end in sorrow with no escape.

It wasn’t a fight but it was close to it and Myka takes a deep breath – it wavers inside the chest – and Helena’s feet are cautious against this overgrown grass and her own heart begins to beat in timpani rhythms and it sounds like thunder.

And the sky opens up and Helena can smell the rain right before it falls.

/

…there are things you’ve yet to say but you don’t know if you need to say them anymore – not with lips parting beneath your own – because how could any one word or even a series of words begin to explain what you feel for her and so this silence does not just belong to you – all this talking you aren’t doing – because it belongs to the both of you now and her body hovers near to you and your hands stay painfully at your side and she is kissing you… she is kissing you and telling you everything…

…and so you listen.

/

It is the turn of minor muscles, it is the corner where she hides her smile; it is the taste of cool water as it slips over Myka’s face, as it curves around where they finally meet, and rests patiently against Helena’s tongue.

It is a gasp of air soon swallowed up, it is the sucking of wet flesh into endless warmth; it is the sound of Myka’s breathless sigh as it drifts into Helena’s ears, as it drowns out the symphony of this storm, and settles into the tender space between them.

It is a kiss.

It is their kiss.

/

…and so there are things they do not need to say anymore.

/

(end)


	64. 'it should come as no surprise'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S3 - set during the end of 'Stand'; Myka POV

~ ~

You tell yourself that it was always ending; it was always ending and so this should come as no surprise. You’ve been left in a tomb of sand and of sorrow; you’ve been at the brink of destruction and now all of these hours have come to this.

56 seconds and counting and then it will be as if she never existed at all; 56 seconds and counting and it will be as if she died in her own time – London streets and coal-dusted dreams of what may come.

And you tell yourself that is was always ending; it was always going to end like this – one of you safe while the other was in danger, one of you fighting for what is right while the other stands motionless, wishing for something better…

…46 seconds and counting…

And you tell yourself that this is how love has always found you and this is how love always leaves you – torn from your grasp but still shimmering ahead of you – and you tell yourself to let her go.

Let her go as you had to let go of Sam. Let her go as you’ve had to let her go so many times before.

Let her go before she gets too close, let her go before she captures your heart, let her go before she disappears from view…

…36 seconds and counting…

And soon it will be fire and it will be the end of this world you know and it will be as if she never existed – not a trace, nor a pile of ashes to slip your shaking fingers through – and you tell yourself that it was always going to end this way; it was always ending between the two of you.

And it should come as no surprise that you are being asked to let go of her now.

Now, with a violet halo around your body and her damn smile shining brighter than the sun and the words that she says – mouth moving but not making a single sound; now, with the tears you have refused to shed – from the moment she was hauled away in a dark SUV to the moment she flashed in front of you in your parents’ bookstore… 

…26 seconds and counting…

You tell yourself that this love was never meant to be, you tell yourself that this is the cost of regret, you tell yourself that maybe it is better this way, you tell yourself that if she can live with this choice… so can you…

You tell yourself so many things and yet none of them are true.

…16 seconds and counting…

And you stare at the curve of her lips, at the light in her eyes, at the warm way in which she regards you and at the way each breath causes her chest to rise and fall; you stare at her until your eyes burn and until your heart aches and until your soul feels as though it will fracture and fall to pieces.

And you tell yourself… you tell yourself that this… that this isn’t killing you…

But it comes as no surprise to find out what a liar you are.

…6 seconds and counting…

And you want to say that you understand, that now you know; you want to shout out your forgiveness and your acceptance, you want to thank her – for fighting, for struggling, for being the best when good would have been good enough…

…You want to kiss her lips and write all these words onto her skin and slip a fine gold ring onto her finger and watch in wonder as raven strands slowly turn silver; you want her – only her – and nothing else.

…5…

…and she sees this desire in your watery gaze; she sees it and continues smiling at you…

…4…

…and the future you might have had washes over her face…

…3…

…and she has always loved you – even as she held a gun to your head, even as she split herself apart…

…2…

…even now, as time finally runs out…she loves you enough…

…1…

…she loves you enough to let you go…

…and it should come as no surprise.

(end)


	65. 'effleurage in blue'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Myka POV; light smut

~ ~

You haven’t thought about it in this way in a very long time… Maybe you never have, not really…

Maybe it was always about where the bones meet ( _this is where you heal, this is where you hurt_ ); maybe it was always a means to an end, this knowledge buried in books and taught with a stern voice yelling in your ear ( _this is why the blood moves, this is how to make a heart stop_ ).

You haven’t thought about it in this way…

…Not at all.

/ /

Myka is telling herself that this is coming out of nowhere. But that’s just a nice and tidy lie – a sly slip of insincerity to soothe the rest of her brain; the rest of her brain which is throwing up red flags and shooting off warning flares over this current course of action.

But suddenly the shirt is sliding off the shoulders and black hair sweeps over ivory skin exposed and Myka’s face heats up even as her fingers twitch… twitch with want, not with fear…

…and so the rest of her brain stumbles.

“I can’t thank you enough for this, Myka.”  
“It’s, uh… no problem, really…”

_Oh but it is; it is and you don’t seem to care, do you?_

One knee braced on the bed, one foot still on the floor, and it is only years of hard work – training for the Secret Service, training for the Warehouse – that keeps Myka’s arms from shaking due to this awkward stance.

But it’s not like there is a massage table at Leena’s and Myka sure as hell isn’t going to be straddling Helena’s hips.

_Oh but you want to, don’t you?_

And that last artifact retrieval was hard on everyone; too much running, too much falling down, too many opportunities for pain. And Pete got a black eye and Helena’s got a sore back and Myka – while tired – got away easy this time around and there’s nothing she can do for a black eye but she knows where muscles connect, where they contract and hold instead of releasing and she can fix that.

Still… she’s not breathing so well now; now, with lotion growing warm against her palms and the smooth curve of Helena’s spine stretching out before her…

“…Is everything all-right?”

The question is slightly muffled due to Helena’s head being turned to the side and pushed somewhat indelicately into the mattress; Myka clears her throat and begs her body to function – hands to move, tongue to work.

“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to make sure this stuff was warm… that’s all…”

_The lotion isn’t the only thing around here getting warm, though, is it?_

/ /

She thinks of vertebrae ( _C2 to C5, T10 to L1_ ), she thinks of the trapezius ( _from the occipital bone to the thoracic to the scapula_ ); she thinks of flesh turning pink with gentle friction and she thinks about the soft exhalation from Helena’s lips – the sound of relief, the sound of pleasure…

…and Myka’s body begins to lean a bit more onto the bed and the ball of her bare foot begins to turn and lift away from the floor… ready to leave its safe haven, ready to depart from this last weak tie to anything resembling propriety.

Her thumbs press in and then up, working along the ridge of the shoulder-blades and going deep into the muscle ( _rhomboid major then rhomboid minor_ ). And Helena groans in response – a low yet breathless kind of groan – and that next inhalation of air becomes trapped in Myka’s throat and that foot on the floor loses its battle to stay put.

The tips of Myka’s fingers glide down the length of Helena’s back as both knees sink into the mattress, as the extra weight causes Helena’s body to slowly dip in Myka’s direction – a still clothed hip lightly nudging a still clothed leg – and Myka’s knows that if she doesn’t stop now… if she doesn’t step away right this second…

_But stepping away is the last thing you want to do… isn’t that true?_

…and Myka descends quietly, one hand resting atop the shoulder as her forearm pushes down and then gradually moves across the surface – right where the top of Helena’s pajama-pants gives way to smooth skin, right where aches and agonies so love to live, right where the iliac crest meets up with the thoracolumbar fascia…

“…Oh god, Myka…”

Her arm stops and presses down a bit harder than before and Myka’s eyelids flutter shut on instinct at the sound of Helena’s voice – Helena’s sultry damn voice – and so the final vestiges of resolve fall from Myka’s already loose grasp and her movements are now guided by a long-dormant animal impulse; an impulse that Helena has unwittingly awakened.

One knee shifts over while the other one draws in close and Myka rolls the knuckles of her fists over sinew made gloriously pliable as she settles astride Helena’s lower half and a wondrously new kind of pressure begins to build within Myka’s gut.

_You are losing control of this situation… and you like that, don’t you?_

With every knot found, Helena moans into the bedspread and Myka’s fingertips delve a bit deeper; with every muscle that soon goes from stiff to soothed, Helena releases a heavenly sigh and Myka feels dizzy as lust unspools within her body.

Her own back bows as she slides upwards, forearms on either side of the spine until she is poised over Helena – close enough to lean down and bury her face into Helena’s hair, close enough to lean down and place a kiss upon Helena’s neck ( _lips light against the C7_ ) – and it is then that Myka feels the distinct sensation of her own hips moving unchecked; her own hips caught red-handed in a subtle thrust and she is now pressed torturously against Helena’s clothed backside and even as Myka’s eyes grow suddenly wide at her own actions…

…she catches a glimpse of Helena’s hand – fingers bent and nails digging into the comforter, but that hand is not moving to shove Myka off or to push Myka away…

“Don’t stop…”

Helena’s words are whispered and rough, as if an invisible hold were around the woman’s throat ( _...choked with longing, dying of want…_ ), and each syllable barrels pasts Myka’s ears and straight to Myka’s hips and so another thrust is delivered - more forceful, less shy - and Helena’s grip upon the comforter becomes tighter and a blissful groan escapes Myka’s mouth when she feels Helena push back into her in response. 

And supple skin is left behind as Myka’s palms find the surface of the mattress instead – a sweet bit of leverage sought – and Myka feels like a fire has been lit around her whole body; she is flush with an unmistakable fever and her legs quickly slide down to align with Helena’s and then… and then…

…Myka rolls into Helena with abandon, feeling delicious friction as she grinds against the contours of Helena’s ass – underwear damp and pulled tight as she moves faster and faster - and Myka has never wanted to come as badly as she does right now.

Now - with the heat rising up off of Helena’s naked back and slithering its way under Myka’s t-shirt like an unseen caress; curling around her ribs and then running over her breasts and Myka is practically panting as this sensation washes over her. Now – with shoulder blades opening up and Helena’s forehead shoved against the bed, hands holding onto fistfuls of the comforter as elbows draw out and lift this body just enough so that Myka can feel the movement of Helena beneath her; Helena, rocking into the mattress and breathing heavily as loose muscles become tense again and absolutely nothing else in this entire world matters to Myka right now.

“Oh… fuck…”

And it careens through her bones, through her blood, through every part of herself that she thought she knew so well - this orgasm, a white-hot car flying off the road; this orgasm, crashing into her and wrecking her in the most wonderful of ways.

Myka shudders and shakes as her hips remain relentless and seek to milk every bit of pleasure out of this moment. And the room is filled up with moans and half-words; filled up with the language of a carnal tongue and Myka’s eyes slowly roll back in her head as a testament to this sudden fluency, to this conversation that the two of them are finally having about ecstasy…

/ /

_There’s no going back now and that’s how you want it to be, isn’t it?_

/ /

You haven’t thought about it in this way in a long time… Maybe you never had, not really…

Maybe you were always waiting – waiting for the issues to get sorted out, waiting for the world to be safe again, waiting for when the two of you could exist in the same time… in the same space… Maybe you’ve never felt like this before without a gun in your hand, without your life on the line; maybe you are insane and this is crazy and she’ll turn you around and then turn you away…

…but these hands are so close now, close upon this bedspread, and you watch her spine go rigid with release and you slide your palm over her fingers and her lips find your wrist and she kisses you where the joints and the veins meet and you think that maybe…

…just maybe…

…going back was never an option.

/ /

_And you are exactly where you want to be._

/ /

(end)


	66. 'first'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Myka POV

~ ~

_Yield to the desires of your body…_

////

She kisses you first with her fingertips – they dance over your back as the two of you stand close, breathing in and out as the rest of the house sleeps – and her eyes stay on the window, on another quiet and dark South Dakota night. 

And you blink and she is gone, drifting upstairs like a ghost.

///

She touches you first with her words – they skim across you cheek and they flutter against your ears, her face leaning into yours like it belongs there – and her eyes take you in like a painting, the color of your teenage longing and the shadow of your grown-up wanting.

And you blink and she places her lips to your jaw, a brush-stroke upon your skin.

//

And you blink and you snake your arm around her waist and the two of you careen backwards until the door to her bedroom slams shut and she slams into you and the air that leaves her lungs is the air you set to capturing with your tongue.

She moans first with her mouth – ecstasy sliding against your teeth as you suck her in, as you tug upon her bottom lip and then leave her gasping – but soon she is moaning with her whole body; she is a series of trembling notes as you undo buttons and brand her flesh with your rough caress, she is a symphony as you drop to your knees and bury yourself inside of her.

And you blink and you are gripping her bucking hips and she digs fingernails into your scalp as she comes upon your eager mouth, shaking and muttering obscenities as you drag out every last bit of her pleasure – you lap her up and she nearly collapses down upon you.

/

You fell in love first – watching her grin from around a corner, listening to her softly speak of the past, staring at her as she slept fitfully at your side and you’d reach out to kiss her forehead and smooth your palm over her arms and she would settle into your embrace with a weary sigh – and so you were blind.

And you blink.

And she is gone.

_… then endure the disasters that follow._

/

(end)


	67. 'it is only a second'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff; Myka POV

~ ~

It is only a second when compared with the hours behind them and the hours ahead of them; just a second and it’ll slowly slip away, like seconds do, and there will be sleep and then silence and soon it will be another day – another dawn waking up to the scent of Helena’s hair and the press of skin to skin and an alarm clock going off…

But this single second might as well be an eternity.

And Myka Bering has never been good at giving up her heart.

Hearts tend to hide after being wounded, you see… Hearts play with smoke and mirrors, all to cover up the pain of love torn away or love denied or love never returned in the first place, and so her heart rushes around corners and holds its breath; her heart beats too fitfully, you see, and so Myka places her hands over her chest and hopes that no one hears this longing sound…

But Helena’s ear is against her flesh and so this symphony breaks free.

And Myka Bering pulls this woman closer, closer than anyone has ever been – into her arms, beneath her ribcage, into the marrow and sliding down her throat – and such a love is dangerous; so very dangerous when the world likes to crash down around them and when they live only a breath away from sorrow and it is so very dangerous to want in a life like this one…

But the clothing is removed and everywhere is exactly where they fit with one another.

And Myka Bering has never been good at giving in.

Because what might happen were she to go too far? If she were to cross that last line? If she were to turn herself inside-out – viscera exposed and vulnerabilities laid bare for another to finally see – what would happen then? Would she survive such honesty? Would she manage to speak such a damned hard truth? And what might happen then…?

But Helena’s hand treads a familiar path and suddenly Myka’s body is lit up like a flare – she is the signal to distant planets, Venus to Neptune and hipbone to breast - and she trembles uncontrollably until Helena follows this touch with warm lips, with kisses that soothe even as they spark, and it is only a second… a single second… and it’ll slowly slip away, like seconds do…

..and Myka Bering has never been good at this thing called love…

But it is Helena’s fingers curving and thrusting deep inside of her, it is sweet slickness gliding against her thigh; it is the hot blood thundering through her veins and it is the name that escapes her mouth – straining and rising and moaned into Helena’s neck – and so love has found her at last.

Love falling from Helena’s eyes like stars from the sky and Myka is tugged into this orbit – spine bending with the force of this lust, of this adoration, of this realization – and this is the inevitable pull of gravity and tears wind their way down her face even as she cries out in blissful release… 

…and it is only a second.

(end)


	68. 'all these wrongs'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Myka POV; S2 AU; light-smut

~ ~

There are a million things wrong with this scenario – it is three in the morning, this room is unfamiliar, and she cannot catch her breath (in her throat, held fast in her chest, stolen by a wicked tongue) – but she focuses on what is right.

And what is right is Helena.

And what is wrong is Helena, too.

. . .

Myka carried that frozen face with her all the way back to South Dakota and her hidden pleas fell on deaf ears – once bronzed, always bronzed – and she told herself to shake off this sudden sadness. It’s not like you know her, that’s what her brain would supply as a book would be held in her hands – pages unfinished; it’s not like you’ll ever get the chance to know her, that’s what Myka tells herself over and over and over.

But it doesn’t matter, in the end.

And when Pete goes left, Myka gets distracted and goes right – a flutter of black hair around the corner – and it’s all ‘aces’ this and ‘artifact’ that when Myka places her hand against Helena’s chest and backs the woman into a brick wall.

“I’m only trying to help.”  
“You’re only going to get into trouble.”  
“Trouble finds me, darling…”  
“Somehow I doubt that.”

And they grin at one another as if they know each other and Myka wonders when the hell that happened and Helena is tilting her head to one side – unspoken communication, the kind one builds up after years and years… not after just a few days… and there’s a question written all over Helena’s face.

_Should I stay? Or should I go?_

Claudia should stop playing her music so loud and Myka should learn to stop listening and Helena shouldn’t be so damn… so damn…

And then they are kissing one another – Myka the bullet, Helena the target; they are kissing one another as if they know each other really, really well.

And Myka wonders why the hell this hasn’t happened sooner.

. . .

She showers and she scrubs and yet nothing changes. 

Not that she thought it would… and it has nothing to do with Helena – no marks left even though teeth clamped down on flesh, no lasting impressions around the wrists even though Helena pinned her and trapped her… not that Myka wanted to escape, far from it…

It has nothing to do with Helena and everything to do with Helena.

It has to do with lying – to Artie, to Pete, to the Regents; it has to do with the way that the truth bends every time that Helena shows up and the way that Myka bends with it… the way she bends and twists beneath Helena’s body… 

_…the way she takes me, the way I let her have me…_

It has everything to do with Myka.

Myka longs and craves and desires – and so deceit tumbles from Myka’s mouth as easily as intellect does… because she’ll say anything at this point, anything at all, to have what she is not supposed to want…

…and so this seductive guilt leaves a stain that Myka can never wash away.

. . .

Maybe it would be nice to see the sun rise in Helena’s eyes. Maybe it would be nice to hold the other woman’s hand instead of always letting it go. Maybe it would be nice to find these touches lingering instead of always chasing them down. Maybe it would be nice to turn over with the dawn and find Helena still there, still sleeping. Maybe it would be nice to be on the same side – but out in the open, in front of this new family, for the whole world to see…

…but Helena is quick and Helena is rough and they’ve only got a handful of minutes – thirty at the most – and Myka groans and caves against the fast slide of Helena’s fingertips over her clit, shudders against the press of Helena’s hot mouth to her neck…

…and so maybe ‘nice’ will always have to wait where the two of them are concerned.

. . .

There are a million things wrong with this scenario – this bed that creaks under their weight, curtains drawn tight against distant highway traffic, and she cannot catch her breath (absent from her lungs, running past her lips, given up without a fight) – but she focuses on what is right.

And what is right is Helena inside of her, deeper and deeper until Myka is begging for relief – her fists full of this sheet, her hips rocking back relentlessly; until Myka is nothing more than what Helena has made her – sweat-soaked and shameless, moaning loudly into ancient bedsprings as this orgasm rushes up and claims her…   
finally, finally, finally…

And all these wrongs never felt so damn right.

(end)


	69. 'a lover's code'

///

She thinks it sounds like life – a little bit long, a little bit scarred – but life all the same. And if she counts out the beats, one-two-three-four – if she listens hard enough, if she taps her fingers over the skin – then she is in time with this heart.

She’ll send out an S.O.S. – a lover’s code, oh come and save me…

…tap, tap, tap…

Helena sighs in her sleep and Myka wishes she could scoop up the sound, wishes she could tuck it into her ears and loop it around forever.

…tap, tap, tap…

Oh lover, come and save me…

She thinks it sounds like music – a waltz, a rhumba, a ballroom blitz – but the melody gets lodged in her brain all the same. And these steps were hard won, weren’t they? And this spin around the room came with tears and blood shed, with months lost and trust shaken… and so it goes, one-two-three-four…

And she’ll send out an S.O.S. – a lover’s code, oh come and save me…

…tap, tap, tap…

Helena turns and takes Myka with her, burrowing into pillows like a child, and their fingers fit like puzzle pieces and if she listens hard enough – with her head, with her heart, with the soft plains of her palms – Myka can hear it.

She thinks it sounds like life; she thinks it sounds like music.

…tap, tap, tap…

S.O.S.

Oh lover, come and save me… 

And Myka thinks it sounds like forever.

///


	70. 'might be a trap'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-'Reset'; angsty reflections

/ /

If she had known, of course, she wouldn’t have been so easy to read; so easy to peg and then pin down. She would have kept her guard up, kept a special barrier intact - a barrier that even a smooth-talking, walking-wounded person like H.G. Wells could not breach.

If she had known, of course, she wouldn’t have given her heart the reins and she wouldn’t have allowed her head to slip away. She would have looked further than a sad story and a sharp mind; she would have let her gaze fall beyond Victorian charm and broken grace.

If she had known, of course, she wouldn’t have tumbled down into that rabbit hole so damned willingly; she wouldn’t have watched the woman with shielded eyes - trying to stem the interest, trying to mask the pull - and she would have seen H.G. Wells for who she really was… who she really is…

But hindsight always arrives late to the party - hands held out helplessly, a bittersweet smile upon its face; hindsight is cold comfort as the world falls apart… as Myka’s world falls apart…

‘Might be a trap.’

…and so it usually is… it usually is…

/ /


	71. 'to be blown away'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-'Stand' AU; angst

~ ~

“I had this dream last night…”

“Do tell.”  
“It was crazy… like really, really crazy…”  
“Did it involve bacchanal-like orgies?”  
“No… (a laugh, a grin, and so she finally gazes upward and into Helena’s eyes; Helena is smiling like the cat who caught the canary) …not that kind of crazy, no… more like… It was like everything was wrong.”  
“Wrong how…?”  
“…I’m starting to lose it now. I hate when that happens, you know? You know, when a dream seems so real, so vivid… and then it is just gone again… Don’t you hate when that happens?”  
“But you always remember things, Myka.”  
“I know… I know I do…”  
“Well… (an arm slides underneath her shoulders, tugs her closer and she uses Helena’s chest for a pillow and if she listens to only this – this pillow, this chest – she hears a heartbeat) …we could retrace your steps. It’ll be a mystery, it’ll be a puzzle… We are good at solving the unsolvable, aren’t we?”  
“…We are…”  
“So, start over again. Tell me about your dream, Myka.”

(a sigh into morning light – or is it night? – and she places her palm atop Helena’s stomach, watches fingers rise with each breath… up and down, up and down… and she listens for a second more, listens to this heartbeat beneath her ear… and it goes boom, boom, boom)

“I had this dream last night…”

/////

“How long has he been keeping watch?”  
“All night. I tried to get him to take a break, to walk around or go eat… He won’t listen to me.”  
“Well now we know things are bad if Pete won’t eat something.”

Claudia and Steve smile at each other, but these expressions are just twin shadows of something that used to be brighter, and so lips dip back down again – they become hard lines; they falter and fade away once more.

“It’s not a great day for walking around anyway.”

And Claudia looks at the floor and stares at the puddles of rainwater around the edges of Steve’s shoes.

“Yeah… Yeah, I guess not.”

////

“…and you were in it, you were in my dream…”  
“What was I doing in your dream?”  
“You were telling me something and I didn’t want to listen… I didn’t want to hear you say it because then it would be real…”  
“What would be real, Myka?”  
“The thing you were saying to me… and I can’t hear it, Helena… I just can’t hear it, not now…”  
“Oh Myka… (a tender touch flutters through her hair and fingernails drag lightly against her scalp and she knows that she is crying, silently, and Helena’s warm skin is now damp) …you already know all the words I might say to you…”

(boom, boom, boom – just like cannon fire – and Helena’s heart is ripping apart her entire world)

“I know… I know I do…”  
“And so if you cannot hear me now, then what can you hear?”  
“…The end of everything…”  
“Everything?”

(and so she weeps even more)

///

Pete leans his forehead against the glass, gaze burning with all the sleep he isn’t getting – but he is at the point of no return now; no point in blinking, no point in looking away either.

Besides, he’ll keep his eyes open as long as Myka’s eyes are open.

The only difference is that he can see everything – the paleness of flesh underneath florescent lights, the stark shock of blue veins pushing past slack muscles, and a green-eyed stare that pays no mind to the rest of the world…

…The only difference is that Pete is okay and Myka isn’t.

Myka isn’t okay and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

//

“…I had this dream last night, a crazy dream… and everything was wrong, everything was ending… and everything was you.”

(she places her palm over Helena’s chest, right where the heart should be, and waits to be blown away)

/


	72. 'variation on a theme'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-'Instinct'; angst

~ ~

~ ~

You tell him half-truths; variations on a theme – _here is who I lost, here is why we could work so well together, here is a scar that you may recognize on your own skin_ – and he nods his head and he stares at the floor for a long, long time and you know how this whole situation will play out after-all.

Perhaps you knew of this outcome the moment you stepped into Emily Lake’s decidedly dull shoes.

You tell him what he’ll understand and he nods his head and holds your hand and you’ve given up on a cruel kind-of life…

…so you let him go because you never had him in the first place.

/

You let him go because you never really wanted him at all.

/

_Here is the shadow that used to be my life._

And you turn reinvention into an art-form and another mask slides down effortlessly upon your face and you tell yourself that this is the pretty price of being noble; this is the color of sacrifice – a green gaze wet with stomped-down sorrow, fading slowly from view – and so this is the taste of dreams being buried.

_Here is where my love lies._

/

You let her go because you could never live with hurting her again.

/

And you tell her half-truths; variations on a theme – _here is where I am still broken, here is why we will never truly let each other go, here is where we end before we’ve begun_ – and she nods her head and she stares at you for a long, long time and you know how this whole situation will play out after-all.

Perhaps you knew of this outcome the moment you stepped into Myka Bering’s wonderful world.

And you tell her what she’ll understand and she nods her head and pulls you close and you’ve given up on a cruel kind-of life…

…so you let her go because you never had her in the first place.

/

You tell yourself a half-truth, a variation on a theme, and the theme has always been about losing.

/


	73. 'agonizing inertia'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-'Instinct'; angst

~ ~

She’s been nothing more than a ghost for months and months; there but not really, a faint footfall upon the stairs or a shadow sliding along the wall…

And that was enough, wasn’t it?

To imagine her in some other country, leather coat pulled tight across her chest and a cool breeze blowing through her dark hair – crossing copper wires and creating beautiful chaos, saving the day with a Cheshire-like grin resting on parted lips…

Yes, it was enough to know that she was alive again and she was free from bronze and she was a part of this universe – a crazy, complicated Warehouse kind-of universe – and so she was a part of your universe, too.

She was your moon – though you’d never say such things, not out loud… no… never out loud – but that was where you’d always find her; pale and lovely in the sky above you, unable to touch but always in sight…

…and that was enough, wasn’t it?

/

They are driving away, back to all of that endless wonder, and Myka stares straight ahead as a memory dances into her thoughts – of being ten years old, of walking on wet rocks and of the slick soles of sneakers, of falling against painful edges and of the air being sucked away from her lungs.

It was terrifying because –for one heart-stopping second – Myka felt as though she were dying.

And she can breathe just fine in this car and there are no bruises blossoming on her stomach and her life is quite safe tonight…

…but for one heart-stopping second – palm painfully open and fingers burning from another goodbye – Myka feels as if her whole world is ending.

/

It is enough to know that she is out there somewhere, isn’t it?

And you don’t have to see her every day and you don’t have to hear her voice morning, noon, and night; you don’t want to wrestle with your feelings every time she stands so close to you and you don’t want to linger by her doorway, just waiting for the moment where she invites you in…

…No… No, it’s more than enough to know that she is out there – with a nice guy and with a child to cherish, with a brand new life and a brand new name, with a chance at happiness…

…That’s enough, isn’t it?

/

They are driving away, speeding fast from this town, and Myka stares straight ahead as yellow lines disappear into the darkness and agonizing inertia is pushing against her body – a ghost, a memory, and so many sturdy lies – and it isn’t enough.

And it never will be.

/


	74. 'the cardinal'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-'Instinct'; angsty-ness abounds

~ ~

It’s not the second time, it is the third – you don’t say that you have been counting the minutes, sometimes even the seconds, between one meeting to the next… but you have done so nonetheless – and so you start up a new tally of numbers, beginning from the moment she walks in.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5…_

And you would like to be able to say that, after one-hundred-and-forty-seven years of life upon this spinning rock, you are smarter than you once were; you do not see ledges as challenges anymore and you’ve let go of that madness that made you once chase after danger.

You are so very safe now.

But your coffee still comes to you blacker than the night itself and you still feel this mocking sort-of ache deep down in your bones and this is the third time that the two of you have met up like this – two women talking but saying nothing in a diner somewhere between endless wonder and endless monotony – and you still want what you’ve purposefully put out of reach.

_…10, 11, 12, 13, 14…_

“It’s almost time for spring.”

Myka nods her head towards the window and there, perched upon a thin limb, is a cardinal – loudly singing for some distant mate, blood-red breast full of hot air, and dark eyes scanning over leaves and concrete for all that winter once kept hidden.

And Myka’s voice drifts in-and-out, talking about birds like it is going out of style – green gaze trained on the window, on the maker of that sweet melody of changing seasons – and you go back to what you were doing in the first place.

You go back to watching Myka.

_…19, 20, 21, 22, 23…_

“…and soon the two of them will fly off together, make their own nest, and prepare for autumn…”

_…28, 29, 30, 31, 32…_

And the sunlight slowly dances through those lazy curls and the tilt of the day casts appealing shadows against the skin and you…

You envy the bird.

/ / /


	75. 'yes, this is the way it goes'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post-'Instinct'

~ ~

There is a moment between leaving and being gone where she thinks that the Warehouse doesn’t really need her anymore; she could give up the hunt for terrible treasures and she could keep in touch with Pete by email or with handwritten letters and she could deliver the earth-shattering news to her parents – ‘I’m in love with the father of science-fiction and he is a she and the rest of my life will be about loving her.’

Myka could do that.  
In a heartbeat, in a millisecond, in the blink of an eye…

…she could walk away from it all and slip her fingers through Helena’s dark hair and educate this woman on what it means to truly fight for what you want…

…yes, Myka could do that.

/

And there is a moment between looking back and then looking away where she thinks that Helena might start running after them; Helena might scream for them to stop and Helena might make a move that doesn’t involve ice-ages or handguns or the end of everything and all the held breaths might add up to words and all those words might turn into a reality where Helena will finally ask Myka to stay – ‘I’m in love with you and I want to share this crazy, wonderful world with you from this minute onward.’

It could happen.

In a heartbeat, in a millisecond, in the blink of an eye…

…they could fill up the last of those lingering spaces and they could lean into touches instead of running from them and they could solve that endless puzzle of what’s been missing all along…

…yes, it could happen…

They could have it all.

/

But there is a moment; a moment between the ache of acceptance and the stubbornness of wanting - buried deep underneath the muscles, wrapping slowly around the heart - where Myka Bering thinks that all of their time is now up.

And there is no going back, not with time-machines and not even with astrolabes.

And there is no going forward, not for the two of them, because they just keep on burning all those bridges that could carry them into each other’s arms.

And this moment will have to last a lifetime – this moment upon some darkened driveway in Wisconsin, this moment full of tears that still cling to eyelids, this moment where coffee is a code-word for all that is incomplete…

…this moment where Myka realizes that she’ll be saving the world on her own from now on…

/

…yes, this is the way it goes…

/


	76. 'courage'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S4 AU-ish; a certain degree of sap

~ ~

She asked you to be brave – all golden-green day in her holographic eyes – and so you swore that you’d live up to that request if she could do the same.

And so you did; you let her go, a coin upon stone, and you walked away.

And so she did; head tilted up to the sky, a mirage of the woman you fell in love with – ‘in love with’, god those words hurt and haunt you still – and she disappeared.

/

She said ‘be brave.’

But that was ages ago and those first steps have yet to be taken; she hovers between the hall and your room and you listen all too well but you keep on looking away.

She asked you to be brave and you swore you would be…

…but you’ve regulated such acts of bravado to when lives are on the line, to when the world is about to end, to the moments that get torn away from you as soon as they begin.

And so you sleep with your cowardice night after night.

/

Helena is caught somewhere between relaxed and on-edge, even after all of this time, and Myka isn’t really reading this book anymore. The pages are just pretty subterfuge because the real story is sitting across the room.

One leg pulled up – tucked in like a child might do – while the other leg remains tense, foot on the floor as if always awaiting a reason to run. Helena has her habits, though, and Myka cannot fault her.

Myka has her habits, too.

And maybe they are both runners – of a sort; maybe they derive pleasure from the chase more than from the conquest. Or maybe it is just fear – of a sort; maybe they’ve both lost too much to think about actually having more.

Maybe Helena is just glad to not be insane with grief anymore.

Maybe Myka is just glad to have the other woman around at all.

“Myka…”

Of course, she has been caught staring and the Myka Bering of a couple of years ago might have blushed, might have cut her gaze away in embarrassment. Instead, the Myka Bering of today just lifts an eyebrow in response – her eyes remain exactly where they always want to be, unashamed and open and brave…

…because Helena said ‘be brave’ and Myka swore that she would be.

And it is amazing to watch realization dart across Helena’s face – how it flashes like lightening through deep brown, how it curves around the lips and then pulls them apart in wonder, how it floods pale cheeks with pink-hued awareness.

And it is amazing the way that time just slides off of Myka’s shoulders as she stands up, as she lets this novel tumble to the couch and so with it goes all the memories – love captured in seconds and then gone, the looks that were left to rot and to gather dust, the chances they both squandered…

…None of that matters now because Myka is going to be brave – _I am keeping this promise, I will be true to this vow_ – because Helena asked her to be.

Because Helena cannot always be the brave one – the one with a gun trembling in her hand, the one with a locket hanging heavy around her neck, the one with only seconds to live.

Maybe Helena has needed Myka’s strength all the while.

And maybe Myka is finally strong enough.

/

There are no questions asked, no stuttering replies or bashful reactions.

Helena rises up slowly, arms kept by her side even as she leans forward to meet Myka halfway, even as her head falls temptingly to the left and even as eyelids flutter shut in sublime supplication…

…and they are kissing one another.

/

_“Be brave.”_

…and this is what she has asked of you – to step up if she falters, to believe in her if she fails, to pull her closer when all the world wishes to pull her away – and you swore that you’d live up to that request…

…if she could do the same, if only she could do the same…

/

These are the kind-of kisses that press languidly against warm flesh – lips to the cheek, lips to the jaw, lips brushing against each other; these are the kind-of kisses that cause Myka to grip Helena’s face with both of her hands as knees subtly shake with months of wanting, as each breath comes out in a heady rush of desire set loose…

…and they are kissing one another.

/

…and so you do; she curves into your every touch, tugged forward by love’s invisible strings, and you don’t let go this time…

/

And there are no questions asked when Helena’s tongue slides into Myka’s mouth and there are no stuttering replies as Myka moans so recklessly and there are no bashful reactions – not now, not this time – as this slick caress causes a flood of heat to spill throughout Myka’s body…

…and they are finally kissing one another.

/

…and so she does; you shatter so easily and she pieces you back together again, this woman you are in love with – ‘in love with’, god how long you’ve waited to say that out loud – and this time… this time, she doesn’t fade away…

/

_“Be brave.”_

And in this kiss, courage is found.

/


	77. 'you are used to this'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post-'What Matters Most'; angst; Myka POV

~ ~

_‘step on a crack, break your mother’s back’_

And she thinks about the calls yet to be made, the confessions yet to fall from her tongue, the years she meant to live…

…Well, she meant to live…

That’s all she meant to do.

/

There is nothing like the smell of a city and she breathes in deeply; she breathes in the oil-thick smoke and the tobacco ashes, the two a.m. diners full of week-old grease and yesterday’s rainstorm - still puddles where the sidewalk meets the road - and she loves it.

But it is easy to love when all you’ve got left to look forward to is lamenting.

And so she breathes in deeply and pretends - for tonight - that death is a million miles away from here.

/

Helena looks good in her reflection - lips so red that they manage to bounce off of the table-top underneath her elbows - and so Myka watches the woman like this first, through the window as the rest of the world passes on by…

…and Helena leans against the table, shaking out packets of Sweet & Low - only to not use them, they fall into pretty pink heaps - and Helena is a gorgeous blur, shadows and smeared colors upon a smooth surface…

Helena looks good when she is this close but just out of reach.

/

You are used to not getting what you want, aren’t you?

/

_‘step on a crack…’_

"Are you all-right? Is something wrong?"

This isn’t the coffee that either of you thought you’d have and Helena’s fingers lay halfway between the safety of Emily Lake and the danger of the Warehouse and Myka is fairly sure that this - meeting up in the middle of the night in a city that is not yet asleep…

This is the biggest of mistakes.

"I’ve got cancer. I’m dying."

/

You are used to losing long before you win, aren’t you?

/

Every city is filled to the brim with lights - iridescent, neon, flashing, burning, trailing after taxi cabs and telling everyone where to go - and Myka blinks rapidly in order to take it all in, to store it all away for when she cannot even recall her own name.

Cool green against a windshield. Pale yellow behind marque letters of black. The spinning of blue as it rushes past the two of them - eerie and deathly pale across Helena’s cheek…

Of course, were it not for the lights, one could see the stars.

Myka looks up and imagines the pinpricked skies of South Dakota, of Colorado… of London, back in the 1800’s…

…and maybe it would be nice to turn back time after-all.

/

Helena is aimless as she walks.

Or that is how she seems - stepping over trash, slipping by people, gaze not above nor below, so very sure that Myka is following… which she is because she’s been following Helena from the get-go and why stop now, right?

But stone steps are reached and Helena gracefully tumbles down - one hand gripping that fine iron railing, knuckles so wonderfully white - and Myka supposes that this aim wasn’t so aimless.

"If I asked you stay with me tonight… would you?"

/

Oh yes… you are used to all of this, aren’t you?

/

And it is a series of locks. And it is one lamp turned on - all soft and sweetly dim. And it is the sound of traffic and the hum of electricity and the deafening cacophony of Helena’s trembling touch… a flutter upon the arm, so tender at the wrist…

And it is Myka, breathing in deeply, taking it all in, storing it away for some other day - for some god-awful day - and Helena’s lips taste like the city.

Helena’s lips taste like being alive.

/

_‘…break your mother’s back.’_

Myka listens to Helena’s worn-out heart, the way it beats out-of-step with the rest of the universe, and she wonders if that is because of the bronze or from being over one-hundred years old… or if that is just how a broken heart sounds to the ears of a new lover, so relentless in its ticking… all beautiful bluster to make up for the bruising…

Helena silently weeps into Myka’s hair and so forms another fracture to avoid at all costs.

/

…You are used to everything, aren’t you…?

/

Palm flat upon her stomach, watching the rise and fall of exhausted slumber as the morning paints in swatches of overcast gray - on the wall, on the sheets, along Helena’s body - and Myka thought the hard part would be in the telling…

…but its all in the having, isn’t it?

/

You are used to everything but this.

/


	78. 'the next life'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helena POV; post-cancer revelations

~ ~

“This will all happen again, you know? Of course… not exactly like this…”

A slow blink, covering up and then revealing a darker shade of green – steady gaze amid a whirlwind of sterility – and so Helena continues to talk like a child’s doll whose string keeps being pulled.

“…but it will be you and I, all over again, in some other lifetime…”

A corner of the mouth tries to turn upwards, ever willing to show a second of mockery at something so overly sentimental, but that familiar move takes too much effort and Helena must hold on a bit tighter to a hand that has lost all of its strength.

“…and I won’t attempt to end the world and you won’t leave behind all you love…”

Helena ignores the recognition within that stare, all filled up with words that have already been said – ‘get off your cross’ resounds like a gunshot – but some apologies cannot help but turn up, over and over, just like a bad penny.

“…there won’t even be a Warehouse, not in this other lifetime… but I’ll know you… I’ll know you the very moment I see you… and you’ll be just as ridiculously amazing as you are now… and, of course, I will be brilliant…”

There is a soft laugh lingering in the chest and it almost breaks out past the pain; it almost falls past cracked lips and it almost tumbles into Helena’s ears… a soft laugh lingers inside of Myka – underneath the horrid silence of dying – and Helena finds herself leaning forward in order to catch even a whisper of this sweet sound.

“…we will be brilliant together, Myka… that’s what we shall be…”

Another slow blink, the edges left damp once they reopen, and a part of Helena wants to run so very fast from this room; this room with its white walls and beeping machines, this room littered with flowers that are gradually losing their luster – petals turning brittle – and a part of Helena wants to get up and to walk away and never look back… to pretend and then grow bitter, to regret and then go mad…

…but that is just some other lifetime, isn’t it?

Some other life filled up with terrible loss, some other life where Helena had to watch as someone precious was stripped from her embrace, some other life where the world ended with the closing of a loved one’s eyes…

…and so Helena stays right here – holding onto Myka Bering’s hand, memorizing every inch of Myka Bering’s face –and she lays the foundation for that next life… the life where they do not waste every opportunity, the life where they learn a bit faster and speak a bit sooner, the life where their mistakes only make them stronger instead of tearing them apart… instead of tearing them apart from each other…

“…we will solve every puzzle, Myka…”

A gentle exhale and one tear dragging across the cheek before eyelids flutter and shut and Helena presses her forehead into those delicate curls - breathing in and breaking down - and she doesn’t hear that solitary hum as it echoes, nor does she hear the clatter of feet coming down the hallway; she does not hear this heart cease in its beating and she does not hear this blood as it slows to a deafening crawl…

… because Helena is listening to the next life, held fast upon Myka Bering’s tongue and carried over like a prayer…

"…and we will save the day… in the next life…"

~ ~


	79. 'the pushing of the sun'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> death-drabble

~ ~

She thinks of this first ( _winded, running, sun pushing at her back_ ) and then Myka falls to the floor.

**. . .**

Pages cut her skin as another dawn cracks over the sky and it is not the stinging of fingertips split that causes her eyes to slowly water, teardrops sinking into this newspaper…

_…one by one…_

And the sun is pushing at Helena’s back.

**. . .**

The blood pulls through the veins at an even pace, languid and sweet like the tide, and there are gaps between the wood and there gathers the dust of her life.

And Myka focuses on a nail-head ( _the one not driven down until flat, silvery-fine even at night_ ) and she thinks of this last.

**. . .**

Running and winded, pavement gives way to softer ground, and green leaves cut a path across her face – all shadows and silence, all heat and summertime horror – and in the grooves is the ink and within in the ink are the words that wound the worst.

_Deceased._  
 _Gone._  
 _Over._

And the sun is pushing, pushing, pushing, pushing and so Helena falls.

**. . .**

**(end)**


	80. 'written well'

~ ~

When it is all said and done, a question comes to forefront: if you were written, did they write you well?

And Helena finds the answer ever elusive – like years lost, like a daughter taken – and so the words she would have spoken are lodged in her throat.

/ /

Myka looks best in the early sunlight, that’s what Helena decides, and so she suggest that they walk before the rest of the house is awake; before birds fly too high and before heat tumbles down to the earth and before dawn gives way to day and they are no longer alone…

…alone with each other, saying in silence a million and one things…

“ _You are so very lovely_ ,” that’s what Helena would say if she could speak.

But the grass soaks the lower hem of Helena’s pants as they move in tandem and the flutter of a damsel-fly catches Myka’s gaze – translucent wings become spears of gold – and the green in those eyes matches the leaves that dance above Helena’s muddled, in-love head and so the words never arrive.

/ /

Were you done up in a few measly paragraphs? Are you just a footnote – scribbled in haste, nearly forgotten as the rest of the story carries on without you?

/ /

“ _You are the reason I stay away_ ,” that’s what Helena would say if she could speak.

And yet her tongue does not curl and every syllable collects in her chest and these twisted declarations remain bound to her bones as tail-lights disappear into the darkness.

Myka looks best in the twilight, that’s what Helena decides, and so she stands in this driveway for minutes upon minutes – eyes shut, fingers into fists – and she replays the shimmering of tears and the rosy sheen of sorrow; the sensation of strong arms around her shoulders and the fleeting sense of forever found…

…found with each other, saying in silence a million and one things…

/ /

Or were you never written down at all?

/ /

(end)


	81. 'between'

~

Myka doesn’t make a habit of this sort-of thing, this watching and waiting sort-of thing. Preferring action over talking – muscles make sentences seem obsolete – Myka doesn’t make a habit of staring and holding her breath, of just hanging over the edge… a leaf caught on a second of steady breeze, held fast by unseen hands… in between safety and ruin…

Myka doesn’t make a habit of this sort-of thing.

And Helena’s face burns the eyes of those who keep on looking and so Myka is forever on fire.

/ /

When she closes her fingers tightly enough, the blood is pushed through her veins with haste and she thinks of subways clogged with people or stubborn children filing out through hallways or the speed with which a person’s whole life can change.

Myka creates a fist that goes nowhere.

And she cannot break this jaw, cannot stun this opponent, cannot cause any bruises because the only flesh that will turn black-and-blue is her own.

And she thinks of cancer and of these damn white sheets and of these four walls closing in and of all the years she has wasted and of all the wanting she has denied.

The blood rushes, but Myka is standing still.

/ /

_“Wells and Bering…”_

It could be a detective agency or a law firm. It could be a new comic book duo or the name of some feathered-haired music group from the 1970’s. It could be a lot of things – a talk by silent tombstones, a smiling face from around the corner, a betrayal as the dust settles, an apology as all the hours run out.

It could be anything and that’s what tugs at the corners of Myka’s lips and crafts a smile out of nothing.

_“…Bering and Wells.”_

And Helena’s face burns the eyes of those who keep on looking and so Myka is now made of ashes.

/ /

The blood rushes, but Myka isn’t moving.

And she thinks of artifacts and of magic, of pages unturned and of letters unwritten, of time like a bomb inside her body and of explosions that only she can see.

And she thinks of being a leaf, hanging for a moment in the air, and it doesn’t sound like a bad sort-of life – that watching and waiting sort-of life, forever suspended in between the sky and the earth below, between the constant ache and the sweet satisfaction…

...between the needing and the having, between the known and the unknown…

And so Myka creates a world that will never be hers.

/ /

Helena smiles over at her, so indulgent and so very sly, and Myka doesn’t make a habit of this sort-of thing – this watching and waiting sort-of thing – because Helena’s face burns the eyes of those who keep looking, of those who dare to truly see and not turn away… and Myka doesn’t make a habit of this sort-of thing…

…but she stares and she holds her breath and so goes the ground from beneath her feet.

/ /

And her fingers unfurl and so Myka thinks of love.

/ /

**(end)**


	82. 'the vardøger at night'

~ ~

It was nine o’clock… or maybe it was closer to ten…

Myka didn’t focus on the numbers, just caught them out of the corner of eye as she slowly stood up and let the book fall from her hands, tumbling softly to the surface of the couch she had been sitting on.  
Helena walks past, through the foyer all silent and never once answering Myka’s attempt at a delicate nighttime ‘hello’; walking as if in a dream, pale hand reaching up to glide across the staircase bannister before disappearing from view… one creaking step at a time…

And so the novel is forgotten.  
And so the time isn’t truly noted.  
And so Myka follows as if a string tethers them to one another.  
And so it does.

Helena seems to float, even though Myka can hear each footfall against this wooden floor, and Myka says the woman’s name again as those booted feet do not turn into the darkened bedroom at the end of the hall but breeze beyond the barrier of Myka’s lamp-lit room instead.

And now the syllables rest on Myka’s tongue – _Hel,e,na_ – because she is held fast by the languid way in which Helena is removing her shirt, button by button and then slipping it down… smooth-looking skin now golden underneath sixty watts so gently shaded… and what purpose would it serve to say that name now, except as an exhalation of such sweet surprise?

Those dark eyes find her first, over the shoulder, and Myka wants to stare but she cannot help but blink.

And so the lamp is still on.  
And so the room is empty.  
And so Myka stumbles back as if the air has been stolen from her lungs.  
And so it has.

But the door shuts downstairs and is followed by the sounds of someone coming in after a long day – coat slung haphazardly onto the rack, dirt of the day knocked off on the mat, a yawn kept at bay now echoing against the walls – and that’s how Helena arrives, smiling tiredly towards a wide-eyed Myka, who stands frozen at the top of the stairs.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost…” Helena comments, small grin still in place even as the eyebrows furrow in curiosity.

And so no artifact is at play.  
And so this is no haunting.  
And so Myka’s gaze lingers on Helena as if she had been given a glimpse of the future.  
And so… perhaps… she has.

**(end)**


	83. 'asking for the impossible'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 2 // Helena POV // Angst

~ ~

Fate has a wicked way of working things out, giving you something lovely with one hand and then stripping it from your grasp all the same. And one could be left pondering if it is truly better to have love and lost instead of never loving at all.

Surely, Helena's sanity – frayed around the edges, dull and cracked with loss – would have preferred to have kept affection at bay, to have felt joy only with thoughts and dreams...

...not with living, breathing creatures... not with a face carved from her own blood, fashioned from her ribs and her endless longings...

Truly, it would have been safer if Helena had remained removed from emotion and entanglement, safe in inventions and verbal battles, locked away in some lab with electricity as the only port deemed worthy of her devotion.

But fate has a wicked way of working things out, doesn't it?

And Helena's sanity must have been meant for destruction because that was the inevitable end, torn from her bitter bronze tomb and into a world of tender agonies, into just another version of reality where her daughter does not exist, into a space where anything... or anyone... that might be beautiful would only get in the way of pain to come.

Myka refuses to see what Helena can no longer be blind to – the ceaseless turning of the wheels that only serve to crush those who dare to stand in their path; Myka took her loss and her blame, twisted it until it looked all-right again, and walks around as if she is so easily healed.

And dancing in that green-eyed gaze is the expectation that Helena do the same.

Turn hate into forgiveness, switch loneliness to acceptance, search for wonder once more instead of settling for despair – this is what Myka is asking of her, not with words but with looks. From around shelves and over a coffee mug, beneath curls of hair that fall into the face, in the early morning light and as the night dwindles down to nothing...

...Myka is asking Helena for the impossible, though.

Because fate has a wicked way of working things out – holding salvation just out of reach, taunting the drowning with what could have been... had the heart never been torn asunder, had the rational never dissolved into the irrational, had those that are loved been saved... or never, ever met in the first place...

And the air, for just a moment, pushes hard against Helena's chest – maybe in warning, perhaps just a reminder – but she forces this breath out once Myka comes into view, confused and shocked in this Egyptian tomb, and Helena is asking Myka for forgiveness...

...for the impossible.

**(end)**


End file.
